The Pact
by greygreenwolf
Summary: The British Isles brothers have never got on, as you could say, well... So why are they all suddenly clamouring to help Scotland when he passes out in a meeting? And why are they suddenly wreathed in impenetrable fog, the government cutting off all trade and communications? For one hundred years? No, we should just calm down. It's not the end of the world... right?
1. The Chess Republic

**Le important note: Rated T for now. Violence, language, some themes running through it, use of offensive terms, character death, possible mentions of rape, the end of the world and a complete fail at accents means that it'll probably go up to M later. Essentially, everything goes down the Swanne. You have been warned. Turn back now or forever hold your peace. **

**Le important note two: I don't own Hetalia. Duh. Since this is obvious, it shall only be written here. **

* * *

'_The universe has to move forward. Pain and loss, they define us as much as happiness or love. Whether it's a world, or a relationship... Everything has its time. And everything ends.'_

_-Sarah Jane Smith, Dr Who, Series 2 episode six 'School reunion'_

* * *

The Chess Republic

To say that the British Isles made up a somewhat dysfunctional family was akin to saying that Napoleon was a little bit silly for trying to invade Russia in the winter- i.e.: Technically correct, but playing it down to the point of, well, pointlessness.

As it was, Wales was quite surprised that no one had tried to kill anyone yet. In fact, he was just surprised full stop; putting the five brothers in one room and not having an argument for three hours had to be a record.

The blonde glanced up from his book and looked around the hotel room, wondering why this sudden change of attitudes had occurred. Nowadays, all five of them had to attend world meetings (not just England and the Republic of Ireland), and it apparently made sense to their bosses to put them all in one room and split the cost equally. He supposed it made economic sense, especially with the recession which still itched at the back of their minds, but with the scorch marks from last time… Well, he did sometimes wonder what they could have been thinking to try it again.

A faint whine from the floor beside the couch made Wales glace down, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in to a small smile when he spotted the source of the noise. Gwen batted her scaly head against his hand when he leaned over to pet the dragon, at which the whine turned into a pleased rumble. The Welshman picked her up gently and placed her on his stomach, idly stroking the ridges along her wings as he settled back down to reading. Whilst his relationship with his brothers was sometimes rocky, he could always count on Gwen to make him feel better.

Said brothers were scattered around the room, making their own entertainment. Scotland was staring into the fire reflectively, the mahogany pipe in his mouth letting out occasional smoke rings as he puffed on the tobacco. It was a sight which would always make Northern Ireland laugh if he wasn't otherwise distracted, pointing out that Sherlock Holmes was an Englishman, not a Scot, and so his brother shouldn't be so attached to the stories of the oddball detective. The response would usually be a casual flip off, or more rarely a muttered shut up. The Scotsman had his pride, and when Scotland liked something, then Goddammit he would like it.

The youngest of the brothers was, luckily for the peace, distracted today. Keyed up at the idea of being allowed to 'camp', the Irishman had spent the past few hours constructing a small tent from a spare sheet Wales had found and various bits of furniture. Having finished that to his satisfaction, Northern Ireland was now rootling through his 'emergency supply kit' (his suitcase, as most would call it) for a camping stove. Separate from his brothers, maybe, but the belief in 'Foreigners can't make tea' ran strong in all of them.

Perhaps the most out of place in this picture were Ireland and England. The two sat on a single bed, legs crossed and heads bent over so that brown and blonde were almost touching each other. In between them, Ireland's long fingers hesitated in their movement, then set down a chess piece. The click was audible around the room, and he looked up smugly at his brother. "Yer move."

England considered, eyes darting around the board with a professional's evaluative glance. Chess was one of the few things that could keep the two of them from arguing for longer than a few seconds, and as such it was considered an art form by both of them. Admittedly, Ireland usually won, but England wasn't going to let that make him give up. The blonde picked up a bishop thoughtfully, putting it down onto a black square.

"Ye sure abirt tha'?" Ireland said, eyes glinting, "Oi wouldn't."

"Quite sure," came the response from his brother, taking his hand off the wood. England winced faintly as it was flicked over and replaced with a knight.

"Told ye," Ireland stated, not taking his eyes off the board, "Tha's yer last bishop. Only got a rook an' a few pawns left… Excluding the King, o' course."

England smiled like a shark at that, picking up the rook and setting it down again. "True. But checkmate." The blonde watched as his brother looked at the board, aghast. Whenever he beat his oldest brother, he always got a small feeling of satisfaction. Today was no exception to the rule.

The Irishman scowled, not liking the look on his little brother's face. It was far too close to things he'd seen before, when the bastar- keep the peace, Ireland, keep the peace… "Clever."

"Thank you."

"However…" Ireland smiled back at him, knocking over the king with a flick of his fingers. "Oi'm a Republic. So every one o' them's a king. Come on an' fight me, eh?"

"Shamus…" England growled, mood turning, "that's not how chess works."

Ireland shrugged. "Oi'm oldest. Oi make the rules."

"You can't make up the bloody rules as you go along!"

"Arthur. Ye did."

Green glare met green glare, and the air was at once charged between them. The two nations were famous for having short fuses, and when in each other's presence it was as though even they didn't exist at times. Whilst their countries weren't fighting, and there was a wary acceptance between their people that the past was the past and they should leave it be, the brothers themselves still had some issues with each other. It didn't usually descend into violence on the levels which they'd seen in previous centuries, but more than once they'd spent the night in police cells for attempted murder.

"We agreed to not bring those times up, brother," England said through gritted teeth, keeping their gazes locked.

Ireland growled low in his throat, a look of equal anger on his face. "When did ye e'er keep ter yer agreements, brother?"

"When did you?"

"The two of ye, shut it," Scotland said sharply, exhaling smoke out of his nostrils like Wales' dragon when she was about to fry someone. "We cannae afford problems like last time."

"When he _murdered_ me damn people?!"

"When he _refused to admit_ there were a lot of his people doing the killing?"

The rebukes were instantaneous and simultaneous; the eldest and second youngest looked at each other with something approaching hatred. Scotland glared at both of them in annoyance as a familiar ache started in the back of his head. Dammit, Glasgow, now was not the time to put in a violent suggestion!

Ever the natural peacekeeper, Wales walked over to the two of them and said soothingly, "It's just a game of chess…"

England looked at his twin as though he'd suggested that World War Two was just a small spat between Germany and himself. "He cheated!"

"It proves that he's childish, Arthur, so rise above it," Wales said, not noticing the scarlet colour beginning to rise up his brown haired brother's neck.

"Choildish? _Choildish?_ Yer one ta talk, Dylan, yer damn lapdog!"

The Welshman stiffened, nostrils flaring at he made his hands into fists at his sides. "I was never the one who ran to _France_ for help, Shamus, remember that."

Scotland frowned, getting up and towering over the Welshman. "What are ye implying, Laddie?"

"He's calling you both weaklings who rely on the frog for help, isn't it obvious?" England laughed, the anger on their faces only serving to quiet him into a smirk.

"Says the one who was invaded by France, not the one who didn't ask for help…" Wales said blankly, face unreadable as he stared down the three brothers he was arguing with.

"Wh- That was Normandy, Git, doesn't count!"

"Aye, it does," Ireland said gleefully, "France's bitch, Sasanach."

"France's whore, both you and the Jock!"

Scotland grabbed England by the collar, furious. "Says the bastard who defends the sheep fucker?"

At this last remark, the chaos which Wales had predicted little over five minutes ago erupted, ironically started when the Welshman himself dived at the six foot Scot's head, ignoring the fact that actually landing on it would be physically impossible. This caused Scotland to fall over backwards, pulling England off the bed with him into a furious storm of Welsh. The matter was only made worse when Ireland, grin still on face, was kicked in the teeth as England tried to regain his balance.

As previously mentioned, the Irishman was _not _known for his temper and _was_ known for his tendency to get into a fight with his brother whenever possible. He joined in with something approaching glee and let out a savage war cry, fighting with all the tactical know-how that came with fighting for over three millennia- if it moves, hit it until it stops.

Soon the fight resembled little more than a pile of bodies, each doing its damndest to hurt the other three. Various insults were hurled back and forth, the languages intermingling as each brother lost control of his tongue:

"_Go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!_"

_"Leam-leat!_"

"_Dðcincel!_"

"_Dôs adra i farw i'r gath gael bwyd!_"

_WHOOMPH!_

The brothers froze at the noise, recognising it as foreign and instantly looking around for its source. What they saw made their blood run cold.

The items around their youngest brother were vibrating. The explosion appeared to have been caused by the camping stove exploding; charred marks and tea now reached up the wall to the ceiling and bits of metal thrummed in the air. Northern Ireland himself had gone rigid, eyes fixed on the wall opposite him unseeingly. The items began to spin around him, at first slowly and then faster and faster, until the room was filled with an inhuman keening sound which contrasted sharply with the heavy rain beginning to pour down outside.

Scotland was the first to react, his eyes widening as he pushed his brothers to the ground. "Hit the floor!"

As lightning cracked across the sky the cyclone exploded, sending shards of property ripping through curtains and linen; they embedded themselves an inch into the wall and it was only a garbled spell from Ireland that saved the four brothers from the same fate. As thunder unrolled over the city, England could see the street lights starting to go out through the shattered window, plunging the city into darkness. The only source of illumination was the lightning as it tore through the sky, silhouetting Northern Ireland against the broken window frame with mad, staring eyes and an unnatural posture for the usually cheerful young man. He held himself in a crouching position, teeth bared and hair standing on end. When he spoke, neither language nor voice was his own.

When the language left his mouth, the brothers simply couldn't speak. It lilted and snarled; murmured and howled; it was both beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Northern Ireland collapsed when he was finished, shaking as he relaxed and then with huge, body wracking sobs of terror. Scotland wordlessly pulled the ginger onto his lap and clung to him, as did the three others. They looked out at the howling storm with apprehension, and then looked wordlessly at the destruction that had wrecked the room.

Patrick was speaking the language of wild magic. And each brother knew what that meant.

"Alistair, is thi-"

"Aye. That's the Pact," Scotland whispered, fighting back the tears in the corner of his eyes. "An' ye ken what that means."

"Jesus, Mary an' Joseph…" Ireland said quietly. "It's tha end o' the fecking world."

* * *

**I'm back! *Bursts through the doors***

**Yeah, pretty much a year's absence... sorry about that guys. Family stuff. Anyway, thanks for reading this. ^^ The idea sorta came to my head and I decided, hey, why not? This is mostly focused around the five countries of the British Isles, as recognised by the UN (Sorry Man.).**

**Also, before anyone mentions, yes, I know that the countries mentioned get along quite well at the moment. I just feel that after so long fighting one another, it'd make the normal sibling arguments just that wee bit violent. They love each other really. It's just they can't say it. ;P**

**Since only England's official in le Hetalia universe, a guide to names might be helpful:**

**England: Arthur**

**Northern Ireland: Patrick (Might be referred to as simply 'North')**

**Republic of Ireland: Shamus (Might be referred to as simply 'Ireland')**

**Scotland: Alistair**

**Wales: Dylan.**

**So, there you go. ^^ Thanks for reading, as always, and a review would make me happier than a giant... happy... thing.**

**-Green.**


	2. Burning Bridges

Burning bridges

Germany tapped his foot in irritation, looking at down at his watch to ensure that what he was seeing was correct. It was.

The British Isles were late.

Of course, nations being late to a world meeting wasn't anything unusual. With the combined horrors of jet-lag and nations being, well, nations, he could honestly only recall one occasion when it actually went ahead on schedule. Even then, that was only because 'the printers' had put the wrong time on the invitations, so everyone had turned up three hours earlier than they needed to.

Anyway, aside from that, the numerous personality clashes which occurred at meetings were also a major cause of delays. Italy was distracted by everything, so Germany would yell at him. This would cause Romano to get involved, thus involving Spain, who in turn would bring Prussia and France along for the ride. France would often beckon Scotland over; the Scot would drag England with him sheerly to annoy him. An annoyed England would invariably attract a grinning Ireland who was ready to take the piss, and when the two of them got going it was honestly a miracle if the building was left standing by the time Scotland could be bothered to break them up. If Scotland and the two other brothers decided to join in… Well, Germany hoped that most city centres were bomb proofed now. Their fighting seemed to cause just as much destruction.

In short, trying to get the world to order on time and without serious injuries was nigh on impossible.

The five brothers, though, with all their faults, were never late. If the nuclear apocalypse came they'd be there to greet the four horsemen, sat around a table with a tea pot, ready to insult the living daylights out of whosoever dared to even_ try_ and bring about the end of the world.

Therefore, since they hadn't turned up yet, Germany had begun to worry. In the distance, he heard Big Ben start to ring out the hour, silencing the meeting room as all heads turned towards the five empty seats.

It lasted for all of seven second too, until (somewhat predictably,) America decided to have his say. "Yo, dude, Germany! Where've the old men got to? I'm going to die of _boredom _if one of them doesn't show up!"

Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Trust America… "I haf no idea, Amerika."

"Hmph!" China said, crossing his arms, "It's most immature to be late to your own meetings, aru! I say we start without them!"

To his left, Japan nodded. "_Hai._ It's unusual."

"Maybe something came up…?" Lichtenstein's tiny form questioned, blushing as the eyes of the world turned on her.

France nodded, sending a flirtatious wink her way. "_Oui_, zey are never late, so 'ow about we make our own entertainment, _mademoiselle_?"

As Lichtenstein's blush flared, so did Switzerland's fury. He leapt to his feet, aiming a gun at the Frenchman with blazing eyes. "Vhat did yu say?!"

"Calm down, _Suisse_, I was merely suggesti-"

"If yu dare go near her again," Switzerland yelled, cocking his weapon, "I'll-"

It was probably the door opening with a loud bang that prevented the first Franco-Swiss war since Napoleonic times. As it was, a bullet buried itself in the wall above France's head, causing the French nation to cringe out of the way and once again swear that he would never again try to hit on Switzerland's little sister.

All head turned towards the source of the noise, some being relieved by the appearance of the five men, some being disturbed.

It was the little things that disturbed people. Scotland smoked, yes, but with a pipe in public? Never. That sort of thing was for pansies (or Sherlock Holmes fans, but that's something that the red-head would only admit to as a guilty pleasure in public). And Wales, neat orderly and somewhat pedantic- that bird's nest atop his head wasn't usual. Northern Ireland; where had the usual cheer and bundle of energy gone which characterised the young nation? The oldest of the lot, Ireland, why wasn't he glaring at the world as if to say 'Say anythin' an' Oi'll make ye wish ye'd never been born' as he usually did when stared at? England's change was perhaps the most noticeable- tie askew and shirt only half buttoned, he was trying to put papers back into his permanently scorched briefcase by simply shoving them in without looking.

In short- the brothers looked like shit.

They walked towards their chairs sluggishly, not meeting anyone's gaze as they settled down and waited for the meeting to begin. By now the whole room seemed fascinated; they stared at the group as though they were aliens from a different dimension. Silence reigned for a few minutes as one side waited for the other to speak, before Germany finally decided to take action. "Vell?"

"Well whit?" Ireland snapped back, still not looking up. "We're usually here on time, is it too much ta ask fer five minutes lenience ta avoid tha chaos?"

"As much as I'm loath to give him ammunition, Shamus is right," England put in. "Let people go about their businesses without sticking your bloody nose in, Kraut."

Germany blinked. Then blinked again. Surly attitudes were one thing. This was something new. For all the brothers were bad tempered, they'd always understood his need for order. Hell, it was the only thing which got things done. "I vas merely eq-"

"Can ye no' hear, Germany?" Scotland growled, slamming a massive hand down on the table and glaring at the blonde with pure fury. "We got held up, an' didnae think we'd miss anything. Ye understand?"

Never one to read the atmosphere, this set America's hero senses tingling. "Dude, the guy was just asking a que-"

"An' who asked ye, hmm?" Northern Ireland spat back, glaring at the American. They had a somewhat strained relationship already, one which was not improved by the blonde calling him an 'old fella' when said 'old fella' was actually younger than him by a good one hundred and fifty odd years. The ginger turned on him, bitterness spilling out in biting words. "Tha's right, no one. Bit ye still stick yer nose in, because, oh, look, I'm a superpower, an' tha's whit superpowers do!"

America frowned, guilt welling up as several nations around the table covered their smirks. "Dude, there's no need to be s-"

"I've every right," hissed Northern Ireland, "an' ye know why."

With these seven words (and some input from a rather snarky China about falling behind on debt payments), the meeting room's fragile peace was shattered. Insults started flying, and fists and objects weren't close behind. It almost looked as though the meeting was going to be abandoned in favour of World War Three when someone finally stepped in.

As previously mentioned, Wales was a natural peacekeeper. Sure, his temper sometimes got in the way (jokes about sheep got old very quickly), but in general he had composure to rival even Greece's laid back attitude. There were times, however, when calming people down just wouldn't work.

Apparently, today was one of these days.

"If you don't all shut up and sit down right now, then God help me I'll make Scotland look like a fucking lamb, do you understand!?" he roared, silencing the meeting room. Quite a few nations were quiet out of shock; they'd never seen the Welshman lose his temper before. They refused to meet his gaze as he looked around the room at the assembled nations, a fire in his eyes that burnt itself on their memories like a brand. One by one they sat, until only Wales was still upright. "Now, who the hell comes first in the alphabet?"

Afghanistan raised a hand, his usually blank face displaying a flicker of what might have been fear.

"Right, get up, do your damn presentation, and sit back down. Then we'll have the next person, the next person, the next person. Understand? Fantastic." Wales said, muttering to himself in Welsh as he sat back down.

France sighed internally as he watched the Afghan get up, still looking a bit disturbed by the outburst. It was going to be one of _those_ meetings, wasn't it?

* * *

Somewhat surprisingly, the meeting actually turned out better than expected. Putting Wales in the filthiest mood anyone had ever seen ensured that no one played up, whilst his snappish instructions meant that the various presentations and speeches which were typical of such meetings went through quickly and without a hitch. It had to be one of the most controlled meetings on record.

The only thing which seemed slightly out of joint was when the brothers were passed over. England's eyes flashed when the country on the other side of him was called up, but apart from that there didn't seem to be any reaction. If it wasn't for fear of a Welsh explosion, someone might have questioned it. As it was, the assembled nations had to wait until the end for an answer. No one was risking having their head (quite possibly literally, if the untraceable growling in the room was anything to go by,) bitten off.

It was nearing seven when the five stood, slowly making their way to the front. In the golden light from the sunset that filtered through the windows, the mixtures of blonde and red hair of four of the siblings seemed to glow softly, whilst the brown of Ireland's stood out; a piece of normality in something which was almost unearthly. As the clock once again tolled out the hour, it was Northern Ireland who spoke. He looked around the chamber with big eyes, sadness filling them to their brim. "I'm sorry. But we want ye and everythin' abirt ye off these Isles by twelve tomorrow."

The chamber erupted.

"Vhat?"

"Iz zat even legal?"

"Like, can we have an explanation?"

"This is very irregular, da?"

"Shut it!" Scotland yelled over the ruckus, his hands once again silencing the room with a loud bang. He glared at the assembled nations, making a disguised noise and withdrawing a hip flask from a jacket pocket. "_Sassenach_, ye do the talkin'."

England sighed as the eyes of the world fell on him, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep himself calm. God, all the accusation being sent his way… "We do apologise, but it's one the orders of our governments… We simply cannot function in an international community where things that happen in Iceland cause us to go to war with Spain. Our people believe that it would be best if we cut ourselves off for a few years, just until our economies are back in good shape. It's a decision which I hesitate to take," he cut off here, looking at the members of the Commonwealth. They all looked somewhere between betrayed and horrified. "But our people come first. And there's nothing we can do about it."

"Artie, just you wait on a cotton pickin' second!" America shouted, his voice dropping into the slightly panicked drawl it always did whenever he was agitated, "You can't just hop up and leave! And Ireland, wha-"

"Never mind zat," Germany over-ruled him, "Vhat about zer Euro, zer European Union! You can't back out now; it's a political nightmare!" Anger was starting to fade into his voice now; the realisation of what Ireland would have to do dawning on him. "You owe zer Zone billions!"

Ireland shrugged, a look of annoyance on his face at being addressed in such a manner. "Me people's word is me people's word, Germany. We'll sort it before twelve."

Germany looked ready to protest again; the rest of the room looked riotous, and it was quite possible that World War Three and a Half would have broken out if it wasn't for Scotland's reaction. He had started swaying slightly during the proceedings, and he chose that precise moment to collapse, hitting his head against the edge of the table.

The other four looked horrified, rushing to his aid at once. "_Alba_? _Alba_!"

There was a faint moan from the red head, and the brothers exchanged glances. England and Wales put his arms around their shoulders, whilst Ireland picked up Scotland's legs with a small grunt. Northern Ireland opened the door silently for them, then turned around as he was about to close it. All eyes were fixed on him, some demanding explanation, other regarding him with utter fury.

"We're sorry," the young man whispered. "This is jist the way it has to be."

* * *

Once out of sight of the meeting room and safely in one of the hidden rooms of Westminster, Scotland opened his eyes with a groan. "Oh, my heid…"

England huffed slightly, bandaging a growing lump and slapping the Scot's hand away when he tried to see what the damage was. "Shut up, idiot. I know we said cause a distraction but that was uncalled for."

"Nae, it wasnae…" Scotland whispered, "It really wasnae…"

"What the bloody hell happened then?"

Northern Ireland coughed, holding up a whiskey bottle with an embarrassed grin. "He nips from a hip flask sometimes. Mighta replaced it."

"God, tha' stuff's an abomination tae proper whisky…" Scotland grumbled, taking the offered glass of water from Ireland and throwing it over North's head. "Never ask me tae drink it again."

"Oh, grand," Ireland said, folding his arms, "Ye'll drink it at New Year, but God be damned if ye'll drink it elsewhere."

"Aye, tha' covers it."

"Ye little-"

"Stop it," Wales growled from by the window, watching the nations depart from parliament with an unreadable expression. "We need to get on."

The other four looked at each other for a second, and then joined him. The sunset had turned into dusk, and long shadows gave the street an eerie, almost menacing atmosphere. "Do you think the buggers bought it?"

Wales patted his brother's shoulder without looking over, finding comfort in feeling the living flesh beneath the clothes. "I certainly hope so, _brawd_. I certainly hope so."

* * *

**So, here's le chapter two. Hope you're still reading it. **

**I think that, overall, Northern Ireland and America wouldn't get on so well. They'd be able to put up with each other for short amounts of time, but after that they'd just get on each other's wicks. I know it's still a sensitive topic, but I know people who are still very bitter about the little collection plates that you could find in American pubs for the IRA during The Troubles. It wasn't in every pub, I know, and lord knows that neither of them would have condoned it, but considering depth of feeling over the times that still prevails, I think that an annoyed Patrick would find it hard to not, well, blame Alfred for it (seriously- my history teacher's a die-hard Irish Republican, and he got thrown out of a bar in Boston when he was younger after kicking off at the whole thing. Admittedly, he'd already broken a guy's nose by this point, but it does show the depth of feeling over the matter). If it strikes a nerve in any way, I apologise: it's simply the way I think that they'd react to each other. (For further clarifications, please go to my profile page- I've a lengthy answer there which I didn't want to add to the bottom of this chapter!)**

**After that sobering note, the plot thickens. Wanting to know why this must happen? What'll happen next? Welp, you're going to have to wait (or not, as the case may be ;)). Thank you for reading, and reviews make me very happy!**


	3. Trouble's a-brewing

Trouble's a-brewing

There was one thing in Scotland's life which he could say that he loved and adored beyond doubt- Martha.

No, not a woman, although with the Scot's attitude towards it, it wasn't hard to see why many nations believed this to be the case. The redhead's reputation as a bit of a lady-killer probably didn't help either- he was the type of man that fathers warned their daughters about whilst the poor things were attracted to him like a moth to a flame.

In this case, though, the object of adoration was safe; it was a widely held belief between the British Isles brothers that Scotland would be more upset if he scratched his beloved truck than he would be if one of them managed to get themselves killed.

Martha was a big thing, easily four tonnes, and had been built by Scotland himself in the sixties as a way to distract himself from his everyday life. Every red sheet of metal had been lovingly hammered into shape, whilst each piece of the glass had been hand cut. It had, of course, been upgraded as the law demanded, but underneath it was still the roaring monster which had caused England to spit out his drink when he first saw it, thoroughly dousing the Prime Minister he'd been taking tea with.

Yes, Scotland loved his truck.

It was a pity most of his brothers didn't see it the same way.

"Hey Johnnie Cope are ye wakin' yet, Or are yer drums a-beatin' yet?" the Scot sang at the top of his voice as they went up a winding mountain road at about fifty miles an hour. "If you were wakin', Ah would wait, tae gang tae the coals in the morning!"

Wales groaned, lurching and attempting to not throw up as the truck skidded around another corner. He took one look out of the window, before burying his head in his hands. Flying on a dragon, he could handle. Making his way through the Highlands in a brute of a car with a reckless man who laughed death in the face every time he sat behind the wheel, he really couldn't.

There was a retching noise from his left, and the Welshman smiled despite himself. England threw up _whenever_ it was Scotland's turn to drive. Call it sadistic, but it did make Wales feel better to see that he wasn't the only one feeling the strain. Ireland (sensibly, in most people's opinion,) had opted to make use of his magic rather than facing the car journey- what was the point, he was forever grumbling, of being able to step into the otherworld and travel a short distance there before stepping back into this world miles away from where he'd been if he didn't do so?

Northern Ireland, however, was having the time of his life. He hung onto the door's inside handle with a grin, enthusiastically joining in with his brother's rendition of 'Flower of Scotland' as they finally crested the peak of the ridge they'd been going up. Scotland chuckled as he caught the ginger's eye. Yes, the boy might favour England and Ireland in a lot of things, but his sense of reckless abandon was all Scotland's. "Ye enjoyin' yerself?"

"Aye!"

"No!" the two brothers in the back groaned.

"When will we reach the rest stop?" England asked, trying to keep down the bile that was rising in his throat.

"Mm… half an hour, tops!" Scotland said, "Ye'll love it; it's the Green Welly Stop!"

"Oh, God…" Wales cut in, "That's where Ireland threatened the tourist with disembowelment for 'lookin' at me funny' and started an argument which almost burned the place down. I thought we were banned?"

Scotland simply grinned, lighting up a cigarette and blowing the smoke out of the window. "Oh, aye, but who pays attention to technicalities like tha'?"

* * *

When they arrived there, it was obvious who paid attention to technicalities like that- the owner of the café, which Ireland had tried to slip into without being noticed. He probably would have succeeded too, if it hadn't been for the fact that he had managed to catch the waitress' interest.

As the four brothers walked in, they heard the last of the argument.

"-inal time, Ah'll nae stand for it!" the owner was shouting. He was a throwback to the Highlanders of old, and if he was holding one of his ancestor's claymores it would be quite likely that Ireland would no longer have a head.

"He called me a 'horse-fecking Tory'!" Ireland yelled back, just as impassioned.

"Ladies…" Scotland said, resting a hand on both of them and pushing them apart gently. "Dinnae cause a scene in tha middle of a café, aye?"

The man rounded on him, eyes bulging. "Ye!"

Scotland blinked, going white as he recognised the face. Okay, so maybe it wasn't just Ireland losing his temper that had got the five brothers banned from the café and expelled with a semi-legal shotgun. "Ah, how's yer daughter, man…?"

"Oh, Alistair, you didn't," England groaned, still looking distinctly nauseous.

"…Maybe a wee bit…" Scotland replied, backing away as the Highland Throwback started to walk towards him, all beef with Ireland forgotten as the brown haired man was restrained by Wales.

"A wee bit?" the man roared, "A _wee bit?_ Ye certainly had mair than a wee bit!"

"The lassie offered!"

"Ah'll show ye 'offered', ye goddamn-"

"Stop it, please!"

Northern Ireland's outburst caused them all to look at him- the input of the youngest brother in another case of 'Get away from my daughter!' was usually limited to sniggering as his big brother was chased half way across the country by an angry father. An interjection? Never heard of.

This, however, wasn't the thing which shut up the argument and quite possibly saved Scotland from a violent death (which, incidentally, would have made this story a hell of a lot shorter). It was Northern Ireland's World Famous Puppy Eyes.

He was stood, bottom lip trembling slightly as his eyes went wide at the sight of the fighting. The atmosphere around him was at once one of helpless confusion; the brothers would swear for the rest of their lives that he was making a soft whining noise too, rather like a puppy that's been taken away from its mother for the first time. North sniffed, looking at the café owner as though he was about to burst into tears. "P-please Sir, we're sorry, b-but we needed to meet up here…"

The café owner looked at him in shock for a moment and then his heart melted. He nodded towards the boy and stepped away from both Scotland and Ireland with something like shame all over his face. The same expression painted the faces of everyone in the café, involved or no.

"Ah, Patrick, shh now…" England said softly, taking his hand out of sheer habit.

"Aye, Paddy, listen ta yer brother…" Ireland agreed, fussing over his little brother like a mother hen over its chicks.

As they managed to extract themselves from the café, Northern Ireland's face morphed into one of utter cheer as he stuck his tongue out at his brothers. "Ye believed it!"

He grinned and laughed as they all glared at him, jumping onto a low stone wall and walking along it with his arms outstretched. Northern Ireland, by his own admission, was not as strong as Scotland, as determined as England, as passionate as Ireland or as sensible as Wales. With a still cute face, however, he still had something to his advantage- guilt tripping people into doing what he wanted them to was, if not honourable, than one of the most effective persuasive techniques that the Isles possessed. And, well, quite a bit of Northern Ireland liked to see the two brothers that were almost parents to him getting on for once. Well, okay. Getting on for them, at any rate.

"Oi blame ye fer tha'," Ireland grumbled as they all made their way back to the truck. "Oi was never so manipulative."

"Excuse me, but he looks more like you than he does me," England pointed out, "and without his innocent face it wouldn't work. So, you've really only got yourself to blame."

"Sasanach bastard."

"Irish git."

"You're both to blame, so stop complaining," Wales cut in, preventing their bickering from escalating. "Have you brought the things we need?"

The two brothers wore identical expressions of affront at this question. They _never_ forgot anything; it would give the other far too much ammunition. "Everything's in the backpacks in Alistair's truck."

"Fantastic…" Wales murmured, looking up at the hills which surrounded them. He could feel the magic thrumming through the landscape already, and the promise it held made him shiver inwardly. Scotland had always been fond of dabbling in the wild magic which still permeated his northern regions, but the affect it had on the red-head never ceased to be profound. And they were about to let it all out again, hell's teeth, what were they thinking? "Is this really a good idea…?"

Scotland frowned slightly; he handed him a backpack as the other two went on ahead, still bickering. "Check this bag fer me? And aye, it's the only way, after all. Ye cannae be havin' second thoughts, Dylan?"

Wales sighed softly, wishing that he had… what's-his-name's level of invisibility. He was always the damn dogsbody. "Always, _brawn_, always. But what choice do we have?"

Scotland chewed on the inside of his lip, looking towards Ireland and England trying to convince Northern Ireland down from the wall. They weren't ready, not at all, but Wales was right (as usual). "Aye, true…"

"Do you think he'll work it out?" Wales said, following his gaze.

"Nae. The other two haven't yet, sae he won't," Scotland said, "an' like ye say, visions aren't reliable at the best of times. Either way…" He shook himself out, hoisting the bag back into the truck with no apparent effort. The usual grin adorned his face as he waved at the trio, giving them the finger as they looked over. "Ye lot! Martha!"

"Do I have ta?"

"Aye, ya wee bugger! Get yer arse off tha' wall, get in the front, an' we might make good progress before sundown!"

* * *

Inchnadamph lodge was, to all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere. The nearest 'big' town was Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis, and it would be quite fitting to say that anyone who was out here had to be stark raving mad.

"Give the lad another shot, Jamie! See if he can stand that one!"

"Och, no, that'll be the last of the whiskey, Charlie! The man'll be deid of alcohol poisoning!"

"Try me!"

Or mountain climbers. Which, essentially, _meant_ stark raving mad. England shook his head at the group as they gathered around Ireland, clapping the nation on the back and cheering as he managed to down another glass of the fiery drink. Why his people fell in with nutters like this, he'd never know. Still… there were some benefits…

"Alright lads, grubs' up!" someone called from the kitchen, almost being flattened when twenty odd people rushed towards the pot. "Slow down, idiots, the stew'll go everywhere!"

"Oh, is that what ye told the last-"

"Shut your mouth, Ian McGregor, or I'll damn well shut it for you!"

England chuckled at that, sitting down in the large circle which the climbers and his brothers had managed to form. Several grinned at him and cat-called, thusly leading to an explosion of insults which kept the entire room entertained. Later, he'd look back on the memory as a good one, but for now… well, it was still good.

"Now, where are yeh off to?" one of the people sitting next to him asked. "Divven't take it the wrang way, like, but yeh look more at home behind a desk than here."

England smiled slightly, a thick Northern accent blurring his words as he dropped into synch with his citizen. "Whey, have yeh met me workmates? Divven't have much of a choice!"

They grinned, beard shaking as he began to laugh, "Oh, aye, aye, that's right!"

"Aye, ye bastard!" Scotland yelled, winking at England, "An' don't ye forget it!"

"Where 're ya plannin' on garn?" asked a heavily accented woman from across the room. "There's not much ya can do in the bloomin' way of desk Kathy Burke 'round 'ere."

"Nae, we're on holiday," Scotland clarified, "Fancied climbing Ben More Assynt."

"Oh! We're doin' Cona-mheall! Wanna bowl of chalk the Damien Hirst part wif us?"

Scotland smiled, flashing a brilliant grin. "Oh, aye ma'am. Wouldnae miss it for the world."

* * *

Northern Ireland was not happy. The day had started well enough with all of those nice people coming along with them, but now his feet hurt, the straps were digging in and he was pretty sure that the buzzing coming from the quartz and gneiss around them wasn't normal.

In fact, he knew it wasn't. The buzz was pure, wild magic, contained in the rock only by the small pendant which hung securely around Scotland's neck. He didn't even try to understand how it worked (that was what big brothers were for), but he did know that letting it go as they were planning to do was what could loosely be called a Bad Idea. "Shamus…?"

"Whit?" Ireland asked irritably, already sick of his brother's constant questioning. The beginnings of a hangover probably didn't do much to help, either.

"How much longer?" Northern Ireland asked, looking up at the ridge which loomed over them.

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"Oh, shut up an' walk," he shot back, grumbling about kids these days not knowing how to keep their mouths shut.

North quietened for a minute, then looked behind him. "Dylan?"

"Aye?"

"What're we doin' up here? I thought the world was endin'."

Wales nodded absent-mindedly, attempting to not look at the barren slopes on either side of him. "That's why we're here. We're going to try and stop it."

"Oh. How?"

"You'll see."

They continued walking for about an hour and a half, by which point Northern was quite ready to say stuff it and watch the world end from his sofa in the living room. He'd be comfy, at least, and the risk of giant blisters was considerably less. Then Scotland stopped up ahead, grinning at what looked like a cleft in the rock. "Found it!"

England examined the hole, looking distinctly unimpressed. "This is our amazing secret which will allow us to save the world? A hole in a bloody mountain?"

"Nae," Scotland said cheerily, as he took his pack off and dropped it on the ground. "What's inside is. Take off yer bags."

A feeling of suspicion crept into the four other brothers as they all followed Scotland's lead. The gleeful look in his eye reminded them of a cat who'd just found a mouse that would be so much _fun_ to play with. "What now?"

"Gae through the hole, an' Ah'll pass the bags through," Scotland said innocently. "The water there'll break yer fall."

"Fall?" England said, looking slightly scared as Scotland picked him up. "Put me down, tosser!"

The Scot obliged, dropping his brother down the hole and listening for the faint splash as he hit the hidden loch inside. "Aye, 'course. Now then…" he said, turning back to his brothers with a wide grin and clapping his hands together. "Who's next?"

* * *

A fire spluttered in the gloom as Scotland pushed another piece of wood onto it, attempting to ignore the pendant which was getting uncomfortably hot underneath his shirt. As a warning against wild magic, the charm worked perfectly, but when going willingly into somewhere which practically lived off wild magic, it did tend to try and burn a hole through him. If they managed to survive, that would have to be fixed…

England glanced over, tying up the last bunch of herbs and stowing them back into his backpack. The ones they needed were all laid out in front of him, ready for use. "Is the water boiling yet?"

"Aye," Scotland said, prodding the two feet in diameter copper cauldron with a rowan spoon. "Sheep shagger, ye got yer rocks sorted out?"

"They're not rocks, an' I don't shag sheep," Wales grumbled, glaring at his brother's smile, "but yes."

"Oi've got everythin' else done, aye," Ireland asked as the rest of them turned their eyes on him. "Paddy, git yer arse over ta tha' caldron an' start reading."

Northern Ireland approached slowly, crouching down by the flames with an old tome as the rest of his brothers started to follow the instructions he read them out. Hawthorn, dill, daisy, honeysuckle, lavender, nasturtium, rue, sage, oak, thyme and violet went in first as Scotland stirred, whispering faint snatches of Gaelic under his breath. Moss agate, aquamarine, blue copper turquoise, coal, iolite, jade, onyx, pyrite, smoky quartz and vesuvianite were added by Wales, lines of Welsh now twisting through the Scottish Gaelic and Auld English. Then it was Ireland's turn; he added unnameable objects and a clear cut, commanding voice, the various languages now tied together as he commanded them to form into one. As a single entirety all five brothers unhooked their pendants and, after only a moment's hesitation, violently wrenched the iron nail out of the rope knot, throwing it as far as it could go.

A howling noise filled the chamber as the rope was thrown onto the fire, the tongue of Ulster now hammering the others into shape as lines of light criss-crossed the floor as it followed ancient carvings towards the fire. There was a faint shriek as part of the ceiling collapsed, only to be thrown away from the group as it fell towards them. They ignored it completely, holding out their left hands over the caldron and letting the knife in their right bite into their palm. The blood dripped into the swirling mixture under the gaze of five glazed faces, each completely immersed in the magic they were channelling into the world once again.

The lines on the floor began to meet up, racing towards the purple flames under the caldron and hitting it at full force. The fire flared, engulfing the metal in an eight feet high flame which morphed from wisps of fire into a galloping unicorn, a roaring lion, a dragon bellowing out its challenge and a magnificent stag charging down the cavern as the noise reached a crescendo, the buzzing becoming almost unbearable and then…

Nothing.

Ireland slumped down as the last of the words left him and groaned as he opened his eyes, feeling very much as though he'd been stepped on by an elephant (long story, but now he was very distrustful of the grey bastards). Above him, the ceiling glittered eerily, reflecting off the potion's faint florescence. "Jesus, Mary an' Joseph…"

"I second that…"

"Whit now…?"

"Umm…" Northern Ireland replied, trying to focus on the words in the book. His head felt as though it was being pounded with mallets by midgets living inside his skull, and the words floated around as he looked at them. "Drink it…"

Scotland eyed the mixture with disgust. "Ah'm nae drinkin' _that_."

Northern Ireland ladled it up anyway, entirely unconvinced by the shake in his brother's voice. The five looked at the shifting mixture as it swirled, throwing up steam in strange, iridescent shapes. England was the first to resign himself to it, raising the goblet as if in toast. "To the future?"

"To the future," came the reply as they clinked the goblets together, grimacing as the mixture burned their throats.

Scotland blinked slightly and licked his lips. "What happens no-"

And then the world went black. The ground shook and the British Isles fell; if you could get something coherent out of the brothers as they twisted in agony as the magic of ages rushed out of the rock it had been encased in and back into the land like a cavalry charge against a wheat field, it would have been that they'd heard a scream. Actually, screams.

For the people of the British Isles, the world as they knew it was ending.

For the rest of the world, this was only the start.

* * *

**AND IT ONLY GETS WEIRDER FROM HERE ON IN, MAWAHAHAHA! **

**Ahem. Anyway. Hope you all enjoyed that! Thank you for your favourites, follows and reviews, they make this Englishwoman very happy indeed! ^^ Heck, even views for the story do! Hopefully I won't disappoint!**

**Lemme see, notes for this chapter... Ah yes. Northern Ireland's often seen (where I'm from, at least) as being both part of Ireland and the UK. Since Arthur seems to be the one whom people blame for ALL the invasions, I can kinda see the two of them acting as father figures for the lad. Scotland, with his role in the Plantations, would be the Uncle who encourages him to get all hyped up before Ireland or England can calm him down (Wales, quite sensibly, stays as far away as possible.) **

**The Green Welly Stop is an actual place (their cake=awesome), as is the Inchnadamph (nope, no idea on the pronunciation lodge. No copyright is intended to be broken here, and I don't know if the owner of one of the Cafés in the Stop has a daughter who he caught, well, never mind. The song Scotland's singing is 'Hey Johnnie Cope' and it's to do with the Jacobites- technically I'm allowed it in since, as it's over one hundred years old, it's in the public domain. However, mentioning it here is likely to be helpful, eh? Actually, go look it up, it's pretty awesome. The mountains mentioned are real too, and are some of the highest in the entire British Isles. **

**I'm sick of looking up flower and rock meanings, but there you go. =P **

**As always, thanks for reading, and reviews lead to a very happy Green that practically squees whenever one comes through. **

**Any questions (y'know, apart from plot =P), ask me in a PM and I'll quite happily answer them. If you've a question, it's quite likely that someone else does too, so I'll put the answer up on my profile page. Don't worry, I won't bite! Ergh, this author's note was too long, sorry! ^^'**

**-Green. **


	4. Leave us in peace, foreigner

Leave us in peace, foreigner

America paced restlessly around the room, fiddling with his shirt collar and jumping every time someone passed the double doors set into the wall. Occasionally he'd hurry over to them as the footsteps approached, only to have his hopes dashed when the person walking past shook their head when he opened the door. No, no decision had yet been reached by the senate regarding Operation Fogbuster, and it didn't look like one was going to be reached soon.

The blonde snatched his glasses from his face and rubbed them tiredly, attempting to polish out non-existent smears. He wasn't sure when this had become a nervous habit for him, but it only seemed to occur when he was thinking about _them_ again. Perhaps, as Mattie speculated, it was because he really couldn't believe that what he was seeing whenever he looked towards the islands which his old mentors inhabited, and kept on trying to clean his glasses to make sure that what he was seeing was correct.

Be that as it may, there was no way that America, Hero of two World Wars and numerous other things, savour of the free world and winner of the Oklahoma cattle rodeo three times over, would admit that he was severely freaked out by the fog which had descended over the British Isles a little over forty years ago.

It wasn't like he didn't know that the Isles had weird weather (snow? In the middle of frikken August, for heaven's sake? And continuously getting down to and staying at zero in the winter? How the hell did they survive?!), but this fog didn't just take the biscuit; it took the entire damn bakery before running down the street and raiding the butcher's as well, all whilst wearing nothing but its mother's feather boa and a pair of suspenders.

At first, the nations of the world had thought that it was just typical British and Irish weather. Okay, so _maybe_ a wall of fog covering both islands wasn't _entirely_ normal, but it could just be attributed to the constant cloud cover, right? The first inklings that something was wrong, however, hit when all the internet signals from that part of the globe disappeared. Then there were no more radio signals, no more television signals- in fact, connectivity-wise, the entire area was like a giant hole. Starting to get worried, the governments of the world checked the satellites to see what information could be gleamed from them. It was the same story; all they could see was an impenetrable void of grey.

This, however, was where it started to get interesting. When thermal imaging from space had been developed, it was discovered that nothing showed up. Ditto with sending radio waves to find the shape of the island below the cloud cover; there just wasn't anything there. As far as technology was concerned, the British Isles simply didn't exist. Understandably, the world was worried. Very worried, in fact.

America snuck a glance to his left, taking in the filing cabinet which usually held all the information on this phenomenon. When technology had failed, his scientists had made the next logical choice- send in human beings to see precisely what was going on. By this point, the Isles had been fog covered for about a year with no contact with the outside world, so it seemed rational that any help that they could give would be enthusiastically welcomed by whomsoever was still inhabiting the landmasses (privately, America thought that they'd just be excited to see tea again, but never mind).

The problem was, the first mission didn't come back. Neither did the second or the third, or even the twenty seventh. As nation after nation sent in members of its crack teams, all that they got back was a deafening silence, completely devoid of the men which had presumably given their lives to solve the mystery. Meanwhile, back in France, rumours were beginning to spread along the coast of _things_ inhabiting the English Channel. Little fishing boats would sometimes dip into the fog to avoid the other vessels which traded along one of the world's busiest shipping routes. They tended to survive (although, some were found wrecked off the coast with impossible marks on them…) and America remembered sitting outside a Brittany bar with Canada and France whilst starting wide eyed as a man told them his stories of '_Les Terres des les Spectres_', the Lands of the Wraiths.

Monsieur Pamplemousse had been a big man, thick in the neck with hands so large that it'd probably only take one to strangle the life out of the three blonde nations. He spoke softly, however, his words melting away into the July evening with the wisps of his cigarette smoke and the scent of evening Jasmine.

"_Oui_, I 'ave seen things in zer fog… Terrible things…" he had said, looking between the three nations with a melancholic tone reserved to cats and Frenchmen. "Zey say, in zer docks, zat my crew _et moi_ were lucky to survive such encounters…"

France had tossed his hair, sliding a few coins across to the man nonchalantly. "_Oui, Monsieur, _but what?"

The Captain had pocketed them with a gruff noise of thanks and leaned forward eagerly. "It 'az depended. Sometimez we've seen nothing but shapes _en_ _le _fog, _et_ noises that could be from zer Devil 'imself…" he said quietly, crossing himself at the memory. France followed suit, blue eyes seeming intrigued as he clasped the man's hand encouragingly. Pamplemousse smiled at him, revealing a smile which missed several teeth. "But sometimez… sometimez we 'ave seen things in zer flesh…"

"You all 'ave 'eard zer tales of mermaids, _non_? We were almost ensnared by some about… three, maybe four weeks _après _they were cut off. It's lucky zat my first mate is completely deaf; zer beautiful music almost got us to go in further. And zhen, maybe six months in, we see fireballs in zer sky. Dragons, _Monsieurs_, I am sure. The last encounter was zer most 'orrifique though. We 'ad lost our way in zer normal bad weather and 'ad finally found a bit of calm. We didn't know where we were; our engine 'ad cut out so that we couldn't move. We were starting to panic, _oui_, no one gets out of zer fog alive. Zat what when we saw it…"

America had gulped, gripping the table and trying not to look like he was scared out of his mind. "What did you see, dude?"

"A sea serpent. It came silently, like a… how do you say, torpedo?_ Oui_, a torpedo through zer water, crashing its 'ead into zer 'ull. We started to sink, so everyone rushed to zer lifeboat… Zhen…" the man had taken a breath then, reliving the memories of the night as he told them, "Zhen it 'it zer lifeboat. Five men drowned; I was zer only survivor. Even zhen, it took something… But a leg iz better zhan a life, _non_?"

America remembered nodding at him, thinking vaguely in the back of his head that this would make a fantastic movie. "Dude, thanks, but one more question?"

"But of course?"

"What do you think happened to, like, the people on the Islands?"

The man had let out a Gallic shrug, taking a drag on his cigarette and a sip of wine before answering. "I do not know. _Mais,_ I thank the Mother of God each day zat I am not one of them. On _Les Terres des Spectres,_ what 'ope do zer normal people 'ave?"

America had come away shaken, seeming more distracted than ever before at this news. His President had noticed the change in him but, attributing it to the disappearance of the people who brought him up (even if it did seem deliciously ironic that the countries had asked to be left alone before it was impossible for them to even been reached), hadn't questioned his nation. America had been thankful, and within weeks his happy-go-lucky façade was up and running again. Still though. He worried.

This line of thought, however, had brought him right back to his starting point of pacing around the meeting room. Some of the Senate were arguing that it was time to accept that the Islands were covered; that there really wasn't a way to get back there. They argued that they would have heard word back by now if anyone was still alive, that the tales of sea farers were just mindless superstition, and that the country was broke. It couldn't _afford_ to keep on sending out specialist equipment, no matter what their young nation wanted to do.

The others, who argued that it was in the USA's best interests to find out what was happening, were rapidly being overpowered. Forty years was a long time, and the world wasn't what it once was. What with the Chinese Empire sprawling ever larger day by day and the collapse of Europe in 2017… The British Isles didn't mean that much. Ask some of his younger citizens, and they probably wouldn't have even heard of them. It was a quandary, and suddenly he remembered why he preferred video games over politics. There was a lot less hassle.

He swore slightly as the earpiece he was wearing crackled into life, bringing with it the cool voice of the Presidential Secretary. "_The President will see you now, Mr. Jones._"

America fumbled with it for a second, then pressed the small button which would allow him to reply. "Thanks, Marcia. Awesome service."

He could practically hear the woman roll her eyes. "_Thank you, Mr. Jones._"

As America walked down to the oval office, he wondered what Iggy would think of this new reliance on technology. The ear pieces were quickly replacing phones as a way to communicate, and there was currently a race for technology companies to develop maps which would be displayed on the inside of a set of glasses. No doubt the old man would stubbornly ignore it, sticking with his old landline and road map… Alfred chuckled when he thought that, resting his hand lightly on the wooden door. That was something the English nation and his President had in common, then.

Harry Aston looked tiredly up from his desk as the nation entered the Oval Office, waving him towards the seat in front of his desk. "Sit down, America. If you're as tired as I am with this whole mess, it'll be a welcome relief."

"It didn't go well, dude?" America said, trying to sound sympathetic. His President only laughed bitterly, leaning back in his chair.

"I'm allowed to send in one more party. If no results are yielded, then that's it. We'll have to leave the Brits and Irish to sort it out for themselves."

"Thanks, Mr. President," the blonde said quietly, aware that the man was still silently grieving over his eldest child. The boy had been happy, reckless, and one of the first to sign up to Operation Cloudbuster three years ago. All the man had got back was a shorn off piece of metal dog tag which had been brought up by French trawlers a few months later.

"Good luck, Alfred," the man replied softly. "Close the door on the way out."

America went. Even if he hadn't read '_The Atmosphere'_, he knew when it was best to leave Jackson G. Aston's father alone.

* * *

Ralph McCarthy was twenty one years old when he joined up for the latest Fog Operation. His parents were out of work, his brother in prison, his sister whoring herself out on the streets. Sure, he knew it was a suicide mission, but dying on one of these trips meant a decent pension back for his family. And who knew? This might be the one which came back. At least, that was what he told himself when they lowered the rowing boat over the edge of the ship and let them set off.

The wood creaked as he shifted, and then groaned as he dipped the oars into the water and started to row. Ahead of him, the sunny coast of France lay tantalisingly close. Behind, there was nothing but a swirling wall of grey mist; the ominous, broken house on the well maintained street of the European Confederation.

His ear piece buzzed, letting in the crackling sound of the Officer back on the ship. _"Alright, we're going to release the planes as soon as the first of you hit the fog. Remember, just keep rowing, no matter what you hear. Dover's just ahead of you. Follow the line of the compass, and all should be well. Over and out." _

"Easy for you to say…" the Texan muttered as he hauled once again on the aged oak. "You're not the one risking your neck…"

And then, with one longing look back at the boat, he entered the Fog.

It would prove to be the worst decision of his life.

Back onboard the _USS Dolphin_, high command watched as, one by one, the dots tracking their soldiers faded out on the computer's display. A moment later, the radio operator took off his earphones and shook his head. "I've got nothing, Sir."

"Release the drones. Let's give those boys a fighting chance of getting out of there alive."

* * *

Inside the fog was eerily quiet; every sound made by the wood and the lapping of the waves seemed magnified tenfold. A prickle of unease started along the back of his neck as he looked into the swirling shapes around him, trying to make out anything more than fog and sea. Glancing down, he saw the compass point spinning idly, failing to feel the attraction of either pole. No help there, then. Just have to hope for the best.

There was a sudden noise in the greyness; a rumbling which reminded him of a train going through a tunnel. Ralph looked towards it, then whipped his head around as another noise sounded to his left, this time a low growl. Part of him quivered. Everyone had heard the stories about what was in the fog. Few dismissed them outright. Fewer called the men who said they'd seen things liars.

The Texan stopped rowing for a second, letting the boat go through the mill pond sea under its own steam. He breathed in measured amounts, trying to quell the sudden feeling of panic rising in his breast. Nothing was going to get him. It was just weather and the sea. Calm down. Keep rowing.

A faint flash illuminated the sky above him as he picked up the oars once again. Funny, it almost reminded him of-

A drone came screaming down out of the sky, its undercarriage and cockpit aflame. It missed the boat by a few metres, passing close enough so that Ralph could see the rivets on the underside of its wings. He didn't stop to look for more. With every ounce of strength he possessed, the man frantically started to row as the sky was suddenly filled with flashed. Growls and snarls filled the air, as did leathery, flapping sounds and the soul stealing screech of steel on stone. Here and there, the chatters of the gun could be heard, before an explosion rocked the sky where it had seemed to be coming from. Still Ralph rowed.

And then he was free.

The cliffs loomed above him, as majestic as any history book had showed them to be. Pure blue sky hung over the scene; it seemed as though the fog had just vanished into thin air. If he squinted, the Texan could just about see the pale yellow sands of a beach in the distance.

None of this, however, was of any concern to him. It's hard to pay attention to the landscape when thirty foot, fire breathing lizards are dive-bombing the company.

'_Dragons… Dragons, that's insane! There can't be _Dragons!_ They're just a myth.' _Or, maybe, his mind whispered, just hiding. Denying the existence of something that was trying to kill you was, after all, a somewhat impossible task.

One of the beasts pounced on one of the boats next to him. The man screamed, desperately trying to get away, but the dragon simply let out a roar of triumph and closed its jaws around him. Ralph looked away, fighting down bile as well as panic now. Men weren't made to see each other's vital organs.

Somehow, impossibly, incredibly, he reached the beach. If you asked him how he'd done it, he'd never be able to tell you. Ralph dashed up the beach along with maybe fifteen other survivors, jumping behind huge rocks in the vain hope that they'd ward off the attacks of such creatures.

The last thing they expected was to hear a man speak.

"_Tramorwyr_. We won't hurt you. Come out from the rocks."

Glancing around at each other, one man risked it. He stuck his head above the parapet cautiously, half expecting it to be fried, and asked the question on everyone's lips. "Who the hell are you?"

Ralph just caught the brown haired man's faint smile from astride a magnificent red dragon as he looked over the chalk block. "_Estron_, it's none of your concern. But you should leave. Now."

"After we went through all of _that_?"

"Yes."

"Not fucking likely! Would we even get out alive?"

"Possibly. There's a good forty of you and only five dragons. One may slip through."

"Then we're staying here!"

The man's gaze softened, and Ralph could see nothing but pity in his eyes as he surveyed the small group of survivors. "So be it." He addressed the other riders in a harsh language, and one by one they lazily made their way north.

The group blinked, looking around with surprise. All of that and they were just being left…? One of the company, little more than a boy, really, whined softly, his face contorted in fear. "What are they going to do to us now?"

A grizzled man snorted, standing up from behind his rock and rubbing a hand through his pepper pot beard. "Don't be stupid, boy. There's only the sea ahead of us, the cliffs behind us. What's going to get us now?"

Famous last words. He'd barely been finished speaking when an arrow lodged in his throat, the steel tip going through the sensitive skin as though it wasn't anything more than rice paper. The man dropped like a stone, shock painting his features even in death. Then there was a shouted command, and a hail of arrows flew through the sky. The lucky ones were hit fatally. The unlucky ones were left to bleed out as panic overtook the soldiers. They broke the ragged line established behind the rocks and ran for the cover of the caves, looking about desperately for the location of the archers. Ralph thought he saw a flicker of movement on one of the ledges jutting out from the Cliffside, but then was forced to duck as another flight attacked from above.

From a force of forty, fifteen survived the hundred yard dash to the caves. Out of reach, the huddled together in the blackness, cursing whatever monster had created such a death trap. Ralph huddled over the boy, trying to stop his sobbing. "Shh, dude, you'll be alright…" he whispered, "nothing's going to hurt you now…"

That was when he felt hot breath behind his ear and a knife sliding between his ribs. In the seconds before he blacked out, Ralph McCarthy saw green eyes, red hair and a white, wild smile.

"Sorry, laddie. But it's all for tha greater good, aye?"

* * *

Onboard the _USS Dolphin, _the radio operator jerked awake as a loud bleeping noise started coming through his headphones. He stared at the board in front of him for a second, then shot upright, knocking over his chair. "Sir! I've got signal! One's coming back!"

His superior jerked up from where he'd been dozing at his desk, throwing cold coffee half way across the cabin. "Shit! What did you say?" The man stalked over to where a very faint green pulse could be seen on the radar, just coming out of the fog's influence.

"It's one of ours," the radio operator said, typing frantically. "All the right radio signals are coming off the boat and the soldier! Sir, one _survived_!"

"Get me the Whitehouse. And get that poor bastard out of the sea and into bed! Give him anything he asks for! And get me another goddamn cup of coffee!"

* * *

"I've seen nothing like it, Sir…"

Alfred gulped, gripping the bed rail tightly as he looked at the body laid out on the sheet before him. "I have. Dude, could you give us a bit of privacy? I need to check his chest, and having the whole hospital watching would be unawesome."

The doctor nodded, closing the blinds as he walked out of the private room. Hands shaking, Alfred turned back to the man in the bed. The soldier looked peaceful as he lay there; the gentle rise and fall of his chest didn't indicate that anything was wrong. But something deep inside niggled at Alfred; something wasn't quite right… and he had an awful, terrible feeling that he knew what it was.

Nations weren't like ordinary people. They had certain… talents that they could put into use when they most needed to. Some, like the universal speech they used, were everyday and perceived as ordinary and harmless. Others were… dark. Traitorous. They required blood sacrifices; the breaking of promises; everything needed to kill a nation. One of these talents was the ability to lodge a message in a corpse and keep it fresh. A body, breathing, taking nutrients, very much alive… but dead. No person. The soul was gone, burned out by the message inside.

England had never shied away from admitting they were easy for him to create. And America had a horrible feeling that this was what lay on the bed in front of him. Hands trembling, he undid the man's buttons, cautiously pulling back the pyjama's material from his chest. His breath hitched. There it was.

Over the man's heart lay a black tattoo, beautifully rendered. It swirled and danced across half of his chest, meeting in the shape of a Celtic knot. America shuddered once, fighting down the urge to run, and gently pressed a hand over it. "_Ostende mihi._"

The room faded out, slowly being replaced by a cave. Northern Ireland sat cross legged on the floor, looking up at America as though the nation was underground with him. "America," the boy greeted calmly, "Sit. I've things ta tell you."

America sat, looking at the boy who was both younger and so much older than him. Forty years had changed him, the American mused. So much, yet so little…

Northern Ireland had grown taller over the years, and he just looked… harder. Tougher. His body looked lean, jaw devoid of the baby fat that had lined it when they'd last met. His hair, ever untameable, seemed almost wild now. Green eyes stared back at him as they had for years now, but there was something off about them; something not quite right… America blinked, trying to work it out. They seemed to… pulse? Was that the word? Even if it wasn't, the boy simply looked wild.

"Done staring, _eachtrannach_?"

America started, whipping his gaze back up to Northern Ireland's face. The boy laughed, a small portion of how America remembered showing through for a second, before the cool, almost sardonic expression was once again adorning his face. "Bit o' a change, aye?"

"Dude, that's an understatement…"

"I'll take tha' as a compliment." The boy brought his hands together and rested them under his chin, closing one eye and looking at America with the other. "Me message is simple- Stop tryin' ta get through the Fog. You shouldn't be chuckin' people away like that."

America frowned; heroes were meant to save people, not just leave them to die. "We just wanted to help everyone. I mean, cutting yourselves off like that and then this happening? We were worried!"

"Leave it, Yank," Northern Ireland said sharply, "We know what we're doing."

"And what's that?"

"Waiting."

"For what?"

"None of your concern," he said, the young nation standing and stretching out. Underneath rough woollen trousers, America noticed that the boy wore no shoes.

"Don't your feet hur-"

"Goodbye, America," Northern Ireland said softly, flicking America's forehead with one finger. The blonde felt a in his stomach and suddenly he was stood back in the hospital room, shaking violently and covered in a cold sweat. He sat down heavily as the man finally flatlined, putting his head between his legs when the doctors came running. It was no use. Even the best doctors can't bring back the dead.

* * *

"Well, America?"

The nation sighed, his gaze lingering on the landscape outside the Oval Office. "We pull out. Stop asking questions. Sort ourselves out first. It's all we can do."

Mr. Aston sighed heavily, resting a hand on his nation's back. "I'm sorry, Alfred."

He smiled sadly at the President, sticking his hands in his pockets with a sigh. "Not your problem, bro. Any other news, or can I go?"

"Only that the Cult of Light's spreading again. Another thirty wins in County elections in Wisconsin."

America nodded to himself, flashing a comforting smile at his boss. "Don't worry about them, Boss. It's another fad. Give it ten years and no one will have heard of them. Do ya want a McFlurry picking up?"

The president rolled his eyes. "No thank you Alfred. Ask Marcia on the way out."

His nation nodded and set off, whistling that national anthem as he went. Aston simply shook his head and went back to his paperwork. He'd never understand that nation of his. Not in a million years.

* * *

On a temporal plane very close to our own, a woman cooed softly as she ran a painted nail over the crystal hanging in the war office. The picture showed Alfred walking down the steps of the Whitehouse, deep in thought.

She chuckled quietly to herself, resting a hand on the furry head stood by her side. "Isn't he sweet, Fredrick? That's right, Alfred, dear. Ignore what's happening until its right under your nose. And then…"

A howl went up about the place. And the woman smiled.

"I shall have my revenge." She tapped one finger to the glass. "Starting with _you_."

* * *

**Yes, I'm alive. **

**No, this doesn't answer any more questions. **

**Yes, it just raises more. **

**Sorry. :)**

**Thanks for being absolutely awesome and reading and reviewing! Never mind faving and following! Makes my day, it really does!**

**It's late, so I might go through this again tomorrow. Terribly sorry. Hope you still enjoyed it anyway. **

**Cheers,**

**-Green. **


	5. Meetings and Partings

Meetings and Partings

Germany tapped his foot in irritation, raising a hand to his headset. The device flashed a time across his line of vision and the German sighed. Whilst a lot had changed since he was first formed, the habits of nations obviously hadn't. God damn their hides.

Actually, no, he thought with a twinge of guilt. He wouldn't change those around him for the world, no matter how much he ranted and raved at them to start being at least a little more punctual. There'd been quite enough change over the last seventy six years or so to last an era.

The disappearance of the British Isles had only been the start. With the destabilisation of the Euro caused by the brothers mysteriously pulling out, the monetary crisis that caused in turn and the heightened suspicions towards his country (he really wished they wouldn't mention the war), it was perhaps inevitable that war would come to pass when the EU finally fell. Only Switzerland and his little sister had managed to escape the chaos wrecked as ally turned against ally and old grudges were once again brought out to air. Even then, that neutrality had come at a price. The Swiss government had ordered the borders to close as soon as they realised the sheer number of refugees that would attempt to flee from the fighting. Switzerland and Liechtenstein came first, their bosses had rationalised. If it came with a price tag of blood, then so be it. Better to kill than to be overwhelmed and watch as the country starved then tore itself apart.

After twelve long, long years of fighting, the last of the soldiers had finally surrendered to the American forces that had been sent across the Atlantic to enforce a treaty. Out of the ashes of the European Union, in the rubble that had once been Paris, a new treaty was forged. There was to be a European Confederation, loosely bound together by a central government yet still independent enough so that people didn't feel like they'd spent a generation fighting for nothing.

Scandinavia, as aloof and cold as its countries sometimes were, was probably the Europeans' greatest ally during the first years of the new pathway. They'd argued passionately for more local control, for the place to not be indebted to the USA for its 'help', for social and economic help in the first dark days. In many ways, their friendship was more valuable now than it had ever been before the Fog descended.

Of course, it wasn't like this had happened out of the kindness of their hearts. No, Germany knew that quite a bit of their help was given in return for promises of aid and protection. In the chaos that dominated the European War, no one had noticed as Russia quietly re-absorbed the Baltics into his territory. The quiet annexation of Belarus, Ukraine and Moldavia had raised a few eyebrows, but attention had quickly withered away. By the time he took Kazakhstan home with him, no one cared. Only China had made noises, and he was quickly silenced as the Russian Federation aided the Chinese Empire in its take-over of Mongolia. Germany didn't know much more than that in the East, he had to say. Trading was slowly starting to happen again, now that their economies were looking up, but any information was a closely controlled secret. As always, the Russian and the Chinese man kept their information close to their hearts and away from others' ears.

This was probably a good thing. For them, at least. The South American countries were really starting to come into their own. Looked like the old market leaders were going to be having some competition soon…

The Middle East was an entirely different ball game. As the oil had started to run out, so had tempers. What little information they could gleam from the area spoke of war, famine, pestilence, death- everything that could be expected when an entire subcontinent tore itself apart over the primordial soup that lay underground. Germany shivered slightly, hand unconsciously straying to his gun. Curiosity wasn't his strong suit, but with a history like his, he could quite easily image what was happening outside the few compounds where outsiders were allowed in.

Africa… God, he had no idea what was happening there. One meeting the African nations were there, and the next they weren't. Like when the British Isles disappeared, they'd sent troops and investigators to see what had happened. Unlike the British Isles, they hadn't got anything back. Not even a _Cichol_; the dead bodies infused with a message that nations had the ability to create. With that thought, Germany fought the urge to vomit. His soldier's brain, not to mention his morality, abhorred them. What was dead should stay dead, not be brought back with whatever the hell allowed nations to create them.

Judging by the look on America's face when he'd delivered the news that Northern Ireland had sent one, Germany wasn't the only one with this hatred of the… the _Things. _The American had always been obsessed with stamping out their use and, in his own words, these things were 'unheroic'. It had taken Germany three hours to actually get any information out of him about the message, and even that was a confusing explanation punctuated by rants about how his old mentors had finally overstepped the line. In short, it had told him nothing. Damn America's inability to get to the point.

Apart from that, however, the Yank seemed to be doing well, Germany admitted to himself grudgingly. When one of his people developed the Headset, it had proved to be a savoir. Used all over the world, he dominated the markets of technology in a way Japan never had.

For a second, a flicker of worry went through Germany's mind at that thought. Nowadays, the technology was used, well,_ everywhere_. Be it in the steering of the computerised public transport or the personal headsets used for everything from phone calls to writing a paper, the world seemed to rely on it. Maybe that was a bit over the top and they should really put their trust in something else t-

"Get back here, Kiwi!"

"Not on your life, Ocker!"

"Oh, so you _admit _that I'm harder than ya?"

"Go fuck a Wallaby!"

Germany scowled, all thoughts about technology forgotten as a pair of nations rounded the corner at top speed. Once again, Australia and New Zealand were having one of their little disagreements. Probably about the Rugby, considering they were half way through the season. Gott, at times it seemed like that was the only thing the two were interested in any more. "Vhere zer hell haf you been?!"

"Hey, Bruce, don't get ya knickers in a twist. Just foolin' around with the sheep bastard here," Australia said, not even stopping as he and his brother (sister?) sidestepped the angry looking German. "Sit back and relax a bit. Chill. Have a barbie. Finally get that stick out ya arse and put something else there instead."

"Don't put your fantasies onto someone else, wanker!"

"Love you too, Sibs!"

Germany looked down the hall after them as they continued bickering, wanting to shout but knowing from centuries of experience that it wouldn't do any good. The pair of them were incorrigible, something which they seemed to get from their days as British Colonies. The thought made the usually serious German's mouth tilt slightly upwards.

With England, maybe the boys had a slim chance of normality. But living with a country that tried to attack said blonde whenever they met (considering they lived in the same house, this had been a frequent occurrence), one that spoke the language of boulders and the third that played bagpipes every morning at nine on the dot…

No. They had no chance. And coming from the man raised by Prussia, _that_ was saying something.

* * *

Almost 760 miles away from Berlin and its meeting, the sun was rising over a frost coated landscape. It heaved its way into the sky of the winter solstice, shimmering down onto the white of Salisbury Plain. England breathed out slowly, savouring the feeling of cold air nipping at his skin and the soft vibrations of a hum in his chest. Okay, it was savage, it was primal, and the feelings that the sudden stir of magic in the ground below aroused in him were less than civilised, but at this moment in time he didn't care. Today was a day to give in; to free the beast and let it _run_.

In front of the crowd assembled with him, an old man made his way slowly towards the standing stones of Stonehenge. Surrounding the ancient site was a huge mass of people; several thousand at least, all humming at a tone that was quickly becoming unbearable. Thin lines of light started to thread their way around the sarsen and bluestone; they formed a myriad of shapes and designs that appeared to change and move; pulse, even. England felt his mouth pulling up into a smirk, even as Scotland threw him a knowing grin. Ah, fuck him. This was old magic, and by any Gods you wished to name, he was going to let it have him!

The man stopped in the centre of the stones, silencing the crowd by simply raising his arms. With perfect timing, the sun finally filtered through the stones correctly. All of a sudden, several things happened at once. The man started to chant rapidly, closing his eyes as the light from the stones came together over the top of him and earthed like a lightning bolt through him.

No one moved. Then came a voice which rung with power; the bearded man kept his eyes on the sky. If anyone could see his face, they would say that it resembled nothing short of ecstasy.

"Who represents us?"

As one, the five brothers stepped forward. Ireland bowed first, formal and graceful, brown hair tied tightly in a braid at his back. "Shamus o' Éire, Land o' Shadow Walkers."

"Dylan of Cymru, Land of Dragons," Wales said softly, putting his fist over his chest.

"Alistair o' Alba, Land o' the Sword." Scotland wore his weapon with pride, withdrawing the claymore and bringing it to his lips in a salute.

"Arthur of Albion, Land of Monsters," England said, smile bordering on psychopathic as he bowed next to his older brothers.

"Patrick o' Tuaisceart Éireann," Northern Ireland said, hesitating only for a moment, "Land o'… Hope."

"Do you know what was asked of you when you were young and still weak; malleable; _children?_"

"We do."

The man smiled wider as they said this in unison, their tones as determined as they were defiant. "Then let it be so." His body seemed to be engulfed by the golden light, and the chanting started again, base and driven purely by animal instinct. It reached a crescendo and suddenly the man dissolved on the wind. There was a second of silence, then a wave of magic seemed to crash into all assembled. There were whoops of exhilaration as the power rushed through them in shock waves, both terrifying and comforting at the same time. Thus was the feeling of being bound, heart, body and soul to wild magic. Dangerous as hell, but by Gods, was life worth _living_ for the feeling.

Scotland pulled his siblings into a hug as the crowd started to chatter among itself and break up. His eyes held a wild look, the glow in the green making him look less than human. "Jesus, how'd ye feel?"

"I want to run…" England said dreamily, staring off towards the emptiness of the Plain with a hungry expression. "Just run and run and run."

Scotland whooped loudly, letting him go and encasing Ireland in a headlock. "Ack, borin'! Ireland, let's wrestle! Ye're a fighter!"

The man laughed loudly, ramming his foot into Scotland's without a second thought. "Yer on, piss drinker!"

"Shut it, short arse!"

Northern Ireland snapped his head towards them with an evil look in his eye, a smirk crawling over his face at that insult. "Short arse? Oh, I'll show ye whit a small arse can do to a big one!"

Scotland froze as North jumped on him, grabbing an area that was both very dear to his older brother and not well protected by a kilt. "Hands away from there!"

"Ha, always knew he was _me_ little brother!" Ireland crowed, ruffling the grinning ginger's hair. "He's well and truly got ye by the bollocks there!"

"Pft, git, that was genius. I'm going hunting. Any requests?" England said, curling his toes in anticipation at the hunt ahead of him.

"Aye, Sasanach, food!"

"Approval revoked, Ireland! Wales, coming?"

Wales shook his head, eyes fixed on something already. He brushed off his brothers' hands without saying a word, hunger etched into his face as he made his way into the crowd. "I've got things to do." He left without another word. The brothers stared after him, all previous sense of good humour gone.

"Do ye think he knows whit he's doin'?" Northern Ireland asked quietly, sending a look laced with fear towards the three brothers still surrounding him. They all pulled him into a hug, making soft noises of comfort as he read the answers on their faces. God, he was still so young…

"Let me tell ye, _mo dheartháir_," Ireland said softly, unusual tenderness lacing his words as he stared into the distance. The Irishman gently stroked his brother's hair, and the two other brothers knew that it wasn't Northern Ireland he was seeing at that moment; that, just for a second, he was seeing a son which fell almost two and a half centuries ago. "When the compulsion's like tha', ye haven't a fecking choice. Ne'er mind a goddamn clue about whit ye're getting yerself into."

* * *

The sexuality of nations is less defined and more complex than that of a human. Whilst they can have casual relations like any other, the forming of a lasting bond is often frowned upon. What was the point when you might end up cutting their throat out in a few years time?

That being said, it's worth noting that they do have one advantage- nations cannot impregnate other nations. What would they be, after all? Many nations would say that a nation can't impregnate a human too. In this sense, they're off slightly.

Normally, the nations cannot bear or sire children.

When a Country needs a hero, it's often their children that they call upon.

* * *

Wales thought he was going mad.

He was calm, logical, level-headed Wales. Never-act-impulsively; never-show-your-feelings; never-do anything-without-thinking-through-and-evaluating-t hese-actions-first Wales. All through this mental berating he kept walking, pausing occasionally to sniff the air. Jesus, what was he, some kind of freak?! This wasn't right; just turn around and go back to your brothers!

But, like it or not, the irrepressible urge to go for a walk had taken hold of him. _Not just a walk either_, his mind whispered. _A Hunt_.

"Ah, fuck off," he whispered softly to himself, hands shaking. He was in control. He could turn around at any time. Course he could. Just didn't want to.

Wales kept telling himself this until he saw the woman whose scent he was following. That was the moment when Wales' self control finally crumbled. Stuff waiting. The hunt was on.

* * *

Then again, it would be unwise to call what transpires between a human and a nation 'love' when a child is created. It's pure animal between the both of them. More often than not, it's unrequited; born purely from the magic that sustains a nation's life-force.

So, more often than not, those involved don't have much of a choice in it either way.

* * *

"Evening."

Igraine almost jumped out of her skin as the quiet greeting was called to her from beside the bush she'd made camp behind. It was a little distant from the main camp, she knew, but she'd had an irrepressible urge that it was… _right_ to stay here. Predestined, almost.

A man slid out of the darkness, his green eyes trained on her blue ones. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's nae problem," she said curtly, trying to calm her heart, "An' what're ye out here for?"

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and bringing it to rest on his neck as he regarded her. "God knows."

That intrigued her. "_God_ knows? Surely tha' should be plural? Or do ye follow the old path?"

Smiling, he took a small step in her direction. "Not exactly. Are you a druidess, to know of such things?"

Igraine nodded and gestured towards the ground beside her. "Aye. Or, will be in a few months, anyway. Are ye a druid?"

The brown haired man laughed, light dancing in his eyes. He sat, reaching out and taking her hand. "I can do magic, so I suppose so."

"Aye?" she challenged, "Go on, then."

"Tell you what- if I can make you a butterfly, I get a kiss."

Igraine laughed, playfully swatting at the man's arm. "Forward much? An' it's a deal, but it's got to fly."

The Welshman (or so she thought, judging by his peculiar leather trousers and accent) smiled softly at her and whispered into cupped hands. A burst of light followed, and then the woman gasped. From the stranger's hands, a cloud of purple and orange butterflies had erupted, seemingly out of thin air. One landed on her nose and she giggled, gently brushing it off to join its fellows. "Okay, you win. I'm all yours, mystery man."

He cupped her face gently, with an intense expression that would have made her slap anyone else. This time though, she couldn't. Just couldn't. The moment their skin made contact, it was like a fire spread through her veins. Deep inside, an animal stirred. "You sure?"

She answered by closing the distance between them, amused by his apparent bashfulness. As a trainee druidess of Alba, of course she'd had men in the past. Why was this anything to worry about?

This was the last thought she had before a wave of desire and lust broke over her. Rather than hitting him when he started kissing her hungrily, she responded, weaving her hands through his unruly hair and holding him there. Large hands went around her neck, gently caressing a spot at the base of her skull before sliding them down her back to rest at her waist. She shivered, a moan escaping her lips as he dominated her mouth. Igraine didn't resist as he pulled her into him, responding simply by wrapping her legs around his waist. "Ah dinnae ken a thing about ye."

The man smiled again, gently starting to kiss down her jaw line to her neck. "I'm Wales, last of the Dragonhearts. Magic is in my blood. Call me Dylan, if you prefer. I want you, if you'll have me."

Igraine groaned softly as he bit gently at her neck, arching it to allow him better access. "Tell ye what? Keep on doing tha', an' Ah'll think about it."

His smile told her everything she needed to know and he slowly moved his hands to caress her body. "It's a deal."

* * *

And, tragically, the humans involved are destined to walk a doomed path.

Heroes, they might be.

Old? Never.

* * *

Wales paced the length of the hut once again, wishing for what felt like the billionth time that he'd accepted the offer of company from her clansmen. Tradition stated that it was bad luck for the father to be present at the birth of his child, so, as soon as she neared the eight month mark, they'd been kept apart. The Welshman clenched his fists together in his pockets as another shriek of pain echoed around the village, an all too familiar wave of helplessness washing over him. By Gods old and new, he was an all but immortal country but couldn't do a bloody thing to help the woman.

He snapped his head towards the door as it opened, fixing the windswept clansmen with a tortured expression. The man shook his head. "Himself, Igraine is brave an' strong but… Ah cannae see how she'll last the night."

Wales' face shut down at the news, the faint tremble in his voice the only indication of his feelings. "The child?"

"It lives, Goddess be praised. If Igraine cannae… the Midwife's standing ready with a knife."

"Thank you," Wales whispered, before turning and throwing a punch into the stone wall of the cave that made up the back wall of the house. "Goddamnit, why?!"

"Why, Si-"

His question was interrupted with another punch to the wall, Wales appearing to finally loose his composure. "Why, why, why did I choose _that_ day of all days to _finally_ give into human _desire_?!" he spat, throwing a punch that made his knuckles crack. "_Why?"_

"It's yer first child, isnae it?"

Wales swung his head like an animal at the sound of his voice, a low growl escaping his throat. The Clansman seemed unconcerned as he gently shut the door. "My name's Brett, son o' Cedric. Ah've got eight children, buried two wives, an' it kills ye, doesnae it?"

"_Eight_?"

The man grinned, a cocky expression that Wales usually associated with Scotland all over his face. "My family's fertile, to say the least. Now. Sit."

Grumbling, Wales did as he was told. Brett fished around in his sporran, making a noise of triumph as he withdrew the flask he was looking for. "Drink."

"Whiskey?"

"Nah, whisky," Brett said with a faint noise of annoyance. "Goddamn the Irish and their bloody spelling. It's the first thing tha' comes to mind for people nowadays."

Wales laughed and shook his head, taking a long draught of the amber liquid. It burnt as it went down, and the familiar fire it left in his belly was toe curlingly welcome. "Thank you."

"Whisht, nae problem. Now, listen to me, Dylan. What is the one rule our societies are bound by?"

"What will be will be."

"Exactly. So stop worrying. They'll both be fi-"

A long, high pitched cry echoed through the night and Wales jumped to his feet at the sound. Brett followed a few seconds later, bolting towards the open door. "Wait a minute! Ye dinnae ken what ye'll find!"

His warning was too late. The father was already gone.

* * *

"Himself?"

"Don't call me that!"

Wales snarled out the command, the inhabitants of the small room shrinking back at the venom in his voice. He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes, gently stroking the hair of the corpse in his arms. "Sorry, that was uncalled for."

Brett laid a kindly hand on his shoulder, wincing internally as he saw the pain and hopeless questions in the young man's eyes. "It's fine."

"Why'd she have to die?" Dylan whispered, burying his face in Igraine's shoulder as he softly started to sob. "Why do they always _die_?"

"Ah've asked myself the same question, Laddie. An' Ah've nae idea," Brett said softly, "but she wouldnae be happy with this display, would she? No' with her son alive an' healthy…"

Wales' head whipped up, desperate hope in his eyes. "He survived?!"

A woman picked her with through the crowd and handed him a tiny bundle. The baby inside it stirred gently at the transfer and Wales knew that, at this moment, he'd trade everything he had to be human. Everything. But fate is a cruel mistress, and what will be will be. Brett gaped when the man handed the bundle to him with shaking hands; the Welshman looked as though he was ripping out part of his soul. "Please."

"I-I cannae ta-"

"Please! I can't bring up a child!"

"It'd be hard, aye, but-"

Wales stood, gently lowering his lover to the bed before turning to face Brett. He took the man's face in both hands and put their foreheads together. "I. Can't. Take. Him."

Brett was about to argue when a barrel of images assaulted his mind. Four brothers, Cardiff as it burnt, World Wars, genocide, longbows, guns, civil war, it all went through his mind. Wrenching his head out of the brown haired man's hands, he staggered backwards, clutching the baby to his chest. "What the hell are ye?" Wales took half a step towards him, hands placating, and Brett threw out one his own hands in turn. "Get the hell away from us or Ah'll charge ye with so much magic tha' ye'll never get up again."

Hearing the panic in the man's voice, Wales stepped back. He turned towards the door without another glance, barely acknowledging the people as the crowd that had gathered parted before him. "Call the boy Brian. Brian Conan."

"Is tha't yer last name?"

"No. But it has meaning."

"Ye killed her, ye ken tha'?"

Wales turned to look at Brett before he went out of the door, expression unreadable.

"I know."

* * *

Elsewhere in the world, America was biting his fingernails. Election results were coming in thick and fast. Whilst it wasn't particularly exciting watching, it was of national importance. Good things to know when you're the personification of said nation.

"Election results for Virginia: Republican," his headset smoothly informed him as the state board beside him lit up Virginia in red.

"Election results for Kentucky: Lightbringer."

America frowned slightly as the state turned yellow. Those guys were really starting to become a political force rather than just a cult, then… He sighed softly. No matter what he thought, democracy was democracy. And democracy would be upheld until his dying breath.

* * *

"Miss, is this yours?"

Holly Weatherly paused, looking down curiously as a young girl, maybe eight or nine years old, politely tapped her arm. In her hands, she presented a large bouquet of flowers. Holly chuckled. "Sorry Hun, they're not mine. How about taking them home to your Mom?"

"I don't have a Mom," the little girl said, sniffling slightly. "Can I come with you?"

Holly shifted slightly, trying to get a better look at the dark haired child hanging off her hand as though she was a lifebelt on the Titanic. "Hun, I don't think that's legal…"

The girl squeezed her hand and looked up. "Pleeeeaaaassssseee?"

"Sorry, but I told you…" Holly started, about to suggest that the girl should go to the police, but then trailed off. She looked over the girl with a slightly dreamy look. "You're my sister's kid, aren't you?"

The girl nodded. "Mom wanted me to stay with you."

"I don't see why that should be a problem. Got your things?"

She nodded, holding up a small bag. "Freddie! Come with Auntie Holly!"

Holly looked confused for a second, then her face relaxed as a wolfhound trotted up to her, nuzzling her hand affectionately. "Freddie, eh? Nice name. What's yours, I can't seem to remember…?"

"Caprina," the girl giggled. "Mom married an Italian."

"That's pretty cool. Fancy pancakes tonight?"

"Neat!"

* * *

In his basket that night, Fredrick smiled to himself in the canine way that practically screamed the name of his species to the rooftops. Not that the woman whom they'd pounced on would notice, stupid thing, they'd already burnt out most of the personality within her. Really, humans these days were so… _easy_ to break. He almost missed the challenge.

He felt a hand stroking his ears and growled softly. His Mistress smiled with the face of a nine year old girl, both innocent and full of malice at the same time. "Everything's going according to plan, dear. They won't know what hit them."

* * *

**Lookie here, another chapter. Why, yes, I do love my headcannons. :3 Is it really that easy to tell?**

**Updates will likely be all but non-existent until next summer now. I'm starting sixth form and doing A-levels at a school famed for the amount of homework it gives, after all. =P I'll do what I can, but it's entirely dependant on what school decides to do. **

**Guess what, more questions raised and less answered. ^^ You love me, admit it. I'm kinda intrigued as to where you think this is going, by the way. I know what I'm plotting, but do you? *Insert eyebrow wiggle***

**As always, thanks for reading, reviewing, faving, following, everything! It's awesome! Love you all for it! *Giant hug of doom***

**Oh, and to reiterate: It gets bloody from here on in. I mean, sure, I just killed off about half a billion people in the War and the descent of the Fog, but never mind. It gets worse from now on. If you don't like fighting, best turn around now. It's going to get darker, so if you have a problem with that, again, turn around now. **

**If you're twisted like I am... enjoy. ;) **


	6. Serious Woman Issues

Serious Woman Issues

In the Republic of Ireland's life, there were many things which he could put on his 'Oi hate with a ragin' passion' list.

One of them, for example, was Oliver Cromwell, the murderous bastard that he was. Even mentioning _that_ name in his presence would cause the Irishman to fly into a filthy rage which would only abate once he got his hands around his little brother's neck and had a damn good go at strangling the life out of him.

Another distinct hatred of Ireland's was when people got his language mixed up with Scotland's. Yes, Gaelic and Gaelic was spelt the same, but that's why you were supposed to put _Irish_ Gaelic and _Scottish _Gaelic in front of the languages. As he would constantly correct (read: rant), yes, the languages had a common ancestor, but it was like speaking Latin and expecting an Italian to understand you. It really wasn't going to happen.

In addition to these understandable hatreds, some of the man's dislikes were more bizarre. Sugar in his tea, the misspelling of 'whiskey', Wales' dismissal of Sherlock Holmes (Goddamit, Moriarty _was_ an Irishman, no matter what his runt of a brother said!) - mentioning any of them would soon lead to a very angry Irishman shouting in your face.

Whilst his list of dislikes was very long, the list of things which would rouse him from a deep sleep was considerably shorter. In fact, it could be whittled down to only two things.

The first thing was one which all nations shared. The sound of a weapon being primed, no matter how asleep Ireland had been previously, would cause him to sit bolt upright, body already ready for a fight and hands scrabbling for a weapon or his attackers face.

The second was somewhat more… tailored to him.

Its presence would become rapidly apparent at erratic times, when he felt an all too familiar weight on his chest, long fingers trailing though his untameable hair and lips on his neck which kissed up to his ear before purring "_Dia duit, mo stór,_" into it.

The man hit the wall with a loud bang, eyes staring wildly at the woman who smiled up at him innocently whilst trying to unbutton his shirt.

Quite frankly, he'd rather take the weapon.

"Git offa me!" he shouted at her, batting her hands away as a fiery red blush travelled up his neck.

"Whit, Oi don't e'en git a '_Dia Duit' _back…?'" she asked, pouting slightly as she sat up straight, still effectively straddling him.

"Whi- No, ye rotten crow!" Ireland said, attempting to wriggle out from underneath her. It didn't work.

"But _mo stór…_" she whined, "It's only politeness…"

"Ye can't talk ta me abirt politeness like this!" Ireland spluttered out, trying to ignore her half-lidded look and innocent tone. "Macha, fer Chroist's sa-"

The door in the corner cracked open, letting in a yawning nation holding a small lamp. Ireland's hopes soared like a bird as he saw someone else enter the room, and then crashed back to the ground as he saw who it was.

Scotland blinked once at the scene in front of him and then a grin started to crack across his face. "Shamus…?"

After an internal debate (and what felt like more buttons being undone [how the hell was she even doing that with one hand?]), the Irishman's concern for his virtue won out over his pride. "Alba! Chroist's blood, git her offa me!"

There was a moment of silence before the Scot burst into howls of laughter.

"Dammit Alis- Git away from me, ye madwoman!- tair, help! Don't jist stand an' laugh!" Ireland commanded, desperately trying to keep the pleading out of his voice as Macha trailed her hand down his chest. Dammit, now was not the time!

"Ye- ye sure ye dinnae just want me t-ta leave the two o' ye until tomorrow?" Scotland howled, holding the door frame to keep himself up. "T-the wee lassie looks ta be enjoyin' herself, b-beggin' yer pardon ma'am."

The red-headed woman shot him a small smile from her position on top of Shamus. "Nice ta see ye again, Alistair," she said before turning her attention back to Ireland, "And yer roight; _mo stór_, ye should listen more ta yer brother."

"Tha' idiotic fool isn't the one being- Mph!"

"Was goin' on…?" Northern Ireland sleepily asked as he stepped into the doorway. "So much noise…"

"Dinnae w-worry about anything, Laddie," Scotland said, beginning to resemble a post box as he laughed harder. "Shamus just had a-a wee visitor in the night!"

Northern Ireland blinked, and then looked over at his brother (who was currently trying to avoid being kissed again, by the sound of the curses). A grin identical to the Scotsman's appeared on his face as it registered with him what was happening. Again.

"Patrick! Chroist's sake, Paddy, help! The bagpipe eater's nawr going to an'- Ye get yer hands away from there woman!" All his intentions of staying calm this time were out the window. Quite frankly, Ireland didn't _care_ whom he begged for help this time, as long as he didn't need to put up with this hellcat of a woman who was overly obsessed with him.

"Ah, ye'll be fine…" Northern Ireland said soothingly, sending a wicked look at Scotland. "As the saying goes, jist lie back an' think o' England."

"…_Tuaisceart Éireann_, when Oi git outta this mess, Oi'm gonna fecking castrate ye!" Ireland yelled as the other two bent over laughing again. "An' when ye've git no balls left, Oi'll force feed them ta tha' waste o' soul ye call yer goddamn big brother! Now, wid ye please git off!"

"Mmm… Tha's whit Oi'm trying ta do…" the woman purred, gently caressing his face.

"Not like tha'!"

It was into this mess that England walked, tousle haired and grouchy. He wasn't a morning person, and on the mornings which were fondly (by two of them, anyway,) dubbed 'Macha mornings', his mood only got worse. This was mostly because they tended to happen at some ungodly hour which would require him to be up five hours earlier than usual. "What the hell's happening? It's three o' clock in the bloody morning!"

England was also on one of Ireland's dislike lists. But in this situation, the Irishman could quite happily have kissed him (metaphorically, of course. North had found something on the internet once between the two of them and… no. Just no).

"Sasanach! Oi'll take tha' curse off yer favourite teapot, jist git her off!"

"You bloody wanker, you cursed Tabitha?" England said, looking more aghast by that idea than the fact that his eldest brother was having some quite serious women issues.

"Aye, an' if ye keep on jist standin' there, Oi'll do a lot wor- Feck off, ye auld damn crow!"

"Fine, fine…" England grumbled, pushing past Scotland and Northern Ireland. He tapped the woman on the shoulder politely, bowing as she turned to look at him. "Now, ma'am, I'm terribly sorry about this, but there seems to have been a little mix up. I'm afraid my brother is taken up with something frightfully important right now, and he does request that you put off this involvement until he can focus on you fully, rather than on something else."

Macha looked at him suspiciously. The blonde felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck as the redhead surveyed him. Some nations had stalkers, it was true (Russia and Belarus, for example), but it would be just like the Irish git to somehow attract one of his old Goddesses, wouldn't it? Typical, bloody typical. Sometimes, England really did suspect that his brother plotted all of this just to wake him up earlier on a morning.

"Aye?"

"Yes ma'am. He doesn't wish for your first time to be… forgettable." England said, a slight smirk crossing his face at the expression of pure rage on Ireland's. That'd teach the bastard to get him up early…

She blinked at him, and then caressed the jaw of her captive with a look of deep affection. "_Mo stór_, Oi'm sorry, Oi didn't realise."

"Aye," Ireland said through gritted teeth, sending furious looks at his brothers. They all appeared to be having trouble keeping a straight face. "Jist normal problems, ye know? Like the end o' the world, fer example."

Macha pressed a kiss to his forehead and released him, smiling charmingly at the Welshman whom had finally woken up to see what all the shouting was about. "Actually, tha's why Oi'm here. Should we move this ta the kitchen? Aye, Oi think we should." She swept out, leaving behind one furious brother, one utterly confused one and three who looked like that was the funniest thing they'd seen for centuries.

"Wha…?" Wales queried, blinking owlishly at the four of them.

"Macha," Scotland said chirpily, ruffling the Welshman's hair with such force that it nearly knocked him over, "Tha's the lassie who really likes Brother Dearest."

'Brother Dearest' glared heatedly, trying to redo the buttons on his shirt. "Ye know whit, Scotland?"

"Whit, Ireland?"

"When this war's over, Oi'm goin' ta take the lot o' ye, and kill ye all painfully. An' Oi'm goin' ta damn well enjoy it."

* * *

America's head hurt. In fact, scratch that. It ached to high hell and back.

Swearing under his breath, the nation sprinted down the back streets of Washington DC, desperately trying to escape the sounds of gunfire behind him. He threw himself around a corner, flattening himself against the wall just in time to avoid being hit by flying shrapnel as a tank let its shells whistle into the building behind him. Then America was up again, dodging, ducking and weaving until a pain shot straight through his chest. Alfred staggered slightly, mouth open in a wordless cry, then crashed into the pavement. Limbs shaking, he crawled to the nearest bush in the park, trying to find whatever cover he could.

This was not how election night was meant to go. Ever.

'_Jeez, if only Franklin could see me now…" _he thought, flinching as another wave of pain threatened to send him into unconsciousness. The idea made him laugh hysterically; he knew it was stupid but the old guy would probably just be confused. Times had moved on since he was around.

America cut off laughing abruptly as he started coughing, coating the grass in front of him with blood and phlegm. No time to think of old guys now (no matter how awesome they were), now was time to act like the hero.

Well, as much as a hero that someone who couldn't walk without passing out could be anyway. Okay, so saving the world by doing… hero stuff… wasn't going to work. What now?

The soldier in his mind spat out a wad of chewing tobacco at this question, glaring at him like a child who's just seen its dinner get eaten by their favourite pet. Oh yeah. Maybe he should stop himself bleeding.

Alfred reached up with trembling fingers and lightly touched the skin on his temple where the soldier had shot him at point blank range.

Oh yes. Election night had been fun.

_America was sat with the crowd at the foot of the stage, anxiously waiting for news of the election. Opinion and gallup polls were split cleanly down the middle; no one could guess who was going to win. One thing was for sure though- If the votes didn't go the Democrat's way, then the country would have its first Lightbringer and first female president. _

_The woman in question was sat a short distance away, appearing calm and composed. The confidence she exhibited, Alfred had to admit, was kinda hot. Then again, that could just be the tightly fitted red dress she was wearing. Either way, she was a far sight from the harassed looking bald man sat by America's side. At seventy three, John Lachie was the country's oldest president. He was also the one that had sat through the worst events in America's history, including the decision (for financial reasons) to let Rhode Island flood. Poor guy…_

_There was a disturbance ahead; the speaker going to announce the poll results was swamped by press, only managing to mount the steps onto the stage when the army battered them off. _

_Part of America didn't like that. In fact, the idea set off faint alarm bells in his head; a democratic process shouldn't need armed protection. Then again, with all the unrest they'd had recently… _

"_Ladies and Gentleman," the man announced, "it's now time to announce who the leader of our great nation will be. Let the others not be ashamed, for they have made equal sacrifices, and let the ones who now lead it hold their heads up high."_

_He opened the envelope with a small, golden letter opener, read it, then smiled broadly. "Ladies and Gentleman, please put your hands together for Mr. Lachie!" _

_Lachie slumped in his chair next to Alfred, a look of relief passing over him. Democratic, he might be. Quiet about his hatred for the Lightbringers? Not a chance. _

_America clapped him on the back with a wide smile, winking as the man took steps towards the podium. "Dude, come to Maccy Dee's afterwards for a celebration with m-"_

_The words died in his throat as the air of jubilation was rapidly replaced with one of terror. Faint gunshots could be heard, and the crowd surged away from them like tuna before a shark, only to be driven back as they started to come from the opposite direction. Amongst the chaos, the Lightbringer candidate ascended the steps, arriving on the podium with a quiet smile on her face. _

"_Whoa, crazy chick!" America yelled before he could stop himself, throwing himself against the tide. Heroes didn't let women die! "Miss Weatherly! Get down from there!"_

_The last thing he saw before the bullet entered his head was Caprina Weatherly smile slightly, remove a pistol from under the podium and pull the trigger._

It'd been a slaughter when he'd woken up. It took roughly an hour for a nation to get back up after they'd been killed by a shot to the head, and by the time he regained consciousness, everyone who'd been in the streets were lying rotting before him, their blood attempting to soak into the pavement. Massacre, pure and simple.

Looking back, America could have slapped himself. Of course the army presence was stupid; how many reports had he got that the Lightbringers were funding them now? How many of the people who'd given him the information hadn't ever been in contact with him again? Stupid, stupid, _stupid…_

And now, in every city, the same military coup was taking place. From the Eastern Seaboard to the Western Seaboard, America could feel himself falling apart. Civil war, he'd got through. This, he wasn't sure about.

Another coughing fit descended on him, this time making him retch. Oh, Holy Flying Hamburger Monster, there was so much blood. So much slaughter.

A spasm wracked his body and made his arms collapse beneath him; he attempted to roll to avoid the blood streaked vomit in front of him, succeeding, but managing to lose his glasses in the process.

The world instantly lost focus, becoming little more than a mass of shapeless colours. As he searched desperately, he heard a hard chuckle. "So, Jones. How are we feeling?"

Alfred's blood ran cold. He'd recognise the sound of the Secretary of Defence anywhere.

Fredrick Weatherly smirked as he pressed the gun to the blonde's blood-matted temple, a shiver of glee going through him. Oh, this was _exactly_ how the Mistress wanted him… "Ah, don't worry. We'll have you right as rain soon."

There was a shot.

And America slumped to the ground.

* * *

Having one Goddess of chaos sat at your kitchen table and smiling adoringly at you was one thing. Having another fussing over how you weren't looking after your hair whilst the third was feeding biscuits to a raven was quite another.

Sometimes, the Republic of Ireland really wondered why he got out of bed on a morning. Oh yes. It was because one of these three harpies would turn up if he didn't.

Actually, no, that wasn't fair. Macha was the only real problem, even if the other two were slightly irritating. It wasn't that she wasn't good looking, far from it- Tall, red-headed and with not unremarkable curves- but that she was… obsessive over him. He still wasn't quite sure how it'd started (he thought that it probably involved alcohol somewhere along the line), but somehow he'd managed to promise the youngest of the three sisters that he'd, ah, take her to his bed. Come the cold light of morning and sobriety, he'd seen that this was a Bad Idea. Macha on the other hand… not so much. And, thusly, Ireland had spent a good portion of the past two millennia attempting to avoid her. It was quite obvious to all present that it wasn't going too well.

Badb, on the other hand, was more of a domestic issue. After her little sister had decided that, yes, this man was hers, the woman had declared herself the matriarch of the 'family'. Apparently, this extended to kicking him out of bed if it was after nine in the morning and fussing over his hair. Ireland, strangely, didn't seem to appreciate her methods.

The Morrígan was, to be perfectly honest, the only one whom he didn't have trouble from (well, as little trouble as you could expect from a Goddess of chaos). It was more the way she turned up when her sisters caused trouble than anything else. Logical, an infrequent speaker, and utterly devastating when she wanted to be- the perfect counterpart to her companions.

Ireland really wished that he could say that the same applied to his siblings. The four of them were sitting across from him with expressions which ranged from slight amusement (Wales, who still wasn't quite sure what was going on), to a full blown grin (Scotland, who knew precisely what was going on and was finding it hilarious).

Badb 'tsk'ed, attempting to unwind a piece of grass which had managed to get itself knotted in his hair. "Shamy, ye really need ta start lookin' after yer hair; this is disguisting."

He blushed scarlet, attempting to bat her away. "Git off!"

"_Mo stór, _Oi wish ye wouldn't talk ta Badb like tha', when yer in tha family it'll upset things…" Macha said, taking his hand and gently rubbing the back of it.

"Oi'm nawr yer damn treasure! And _Shamy_?!" Ireland said, sounding aghast. He wasn't quite sure which nickname he disliked more, and he ranked both of them right up there with Cromwell.

"Aye, it's a nice nickname for a nice lad," Badb said happily, adding a hawthorn leaf to the growing pile of things she'd taken out of his hair.

Scotland and Northern Ireland looked ready to choke on their laughter with this news, whilst England's face simply morphed into a smirk. For once, it wasn't _him_ being petted by old women.

The brown haired nation grumbled, knowing that nothing he could do or say would stop the two of them. "Whit did ye want, anyway?"

The Morrígan smiled at this, flicking the last of the biscuit towards the crow that sat on her shoulder. "The War, Child. Our part in it."

"Aye?"

"Aye."

There was silence for a minute, before England decided to take charge. "Could you expand on the point, ma'am? It's half past three in the morning, and, quite frankly, I for one wouldn't mind being in bed. Is waiting for the morning too much to ask?"

The Morrígan looked at him with distaste, before speaking slowly and clearly to Ireland. "That's the Sasanach?"

"Aye…?"

She walked over to the blonde and put a finger under his chin. England flinched; her cold finger had taken him by surprise and the aura of menace which suddenly seemed to appear around her was disturbing to say the least. Whilst the woman was admittedly taller than him, he wasn't quite prepared for the intimidation her presence commanded. "Ma'am?"

"It seems we have unfinished business, Child," she said with a voice like steel, "Keep this in moind before ye speak ta me loike tha', aye?"

The raven cawed in the corner as a gust of wind made the candles stutter in their holders. Arthur gulped, not liking where this was going. "Yes ma'am. But we would still like an explanation."

She looked to Ireland, almost as if waiting for verification on his claim. The Irishman nodded, flicking his eyes over to where the other three sat as if frozen to the table. "Me brother's askin' the question we're all thinkin'."

The Morrígan sent him a thin lipped smile and stepped back, the wind dying back as the room returned to its normal atmosphere. "Oi assume ye know the stakes, Shamus?"

"Aye. The world."

"Aye. And Oi'm assuming' tha' ye know which soide we're… requoired on?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Ireland swallowed, a deep pit of dread starting to form in his stomach.

"Theirs?"

"Aye. But nawr until morning. Badb's got a message fer ye."

All eyes in the room turned to the middle sister, who was suddenly very interested in the floor. Macha smiled encouragingly at her. "Tell them, sister."

"It's more of a prophecy than a message…" Badb started slowly, not meeting anyone's gaze. "An' it's confused; doesn't make any sense…"

"Prophecies never do," Wales grumbled, "Do you remember that one with the Longbottom boy?"

Six pairs of eyes glared at him to be quiet as the seventh closed hers, muttering under her breath. The candles blew out as the incantation continued, plunging the room into darkness as her voice started to thrum with power.

'_Five men shall try, their lives all meet,_

_When the last one lies at my Mistress' feet,_

_The world shall end, but don't despair,_

_For ye'll find nothing but happiness there.'_

There was a faint clatter as the magic discharge from Badb knocked things off the counter and table, the woman herself fainting into the Morrígan's arms. She caught her sister, whispering small, soothing things as she lowered the younger woman to the ground. Ireland met her gaze as she slowly straightened, hovering protectively over Badb like a grouse over its chicks. "Ye know it now, Child. Whatever happens next… Well, it's up to the five o' ye."

Ireland licked his lips, noting the slight nod that came from each brother as he flicked his eyes in their direction. "Thank ye, Morrígan, Badb, Macha. We owe ye a great debt fer the information."

"It's nothing. What will be yer next move?"

Shamus smiled slightly, the use of a chess term amusing him. In a way, he supposed that the affairs of the world must seem like chess for a woman like she but, then again, maybe that's all they were in the end. This time, though, maybe the pawn would manage to usurp the Queen. He turned to his brothers, Scotland no longer grinning and Wales looking even more confused than he had previously.

"Git yer arses on a horse. We're liftin' tha' fog."

* * *

The feeling of a damp cloth on his forehead, soft fingers stroking his hair and the sound of gently cooing female when America re-awoke was pleasant.

The realisation that he was strapped to a chair, the fingers were stroking what felt like blood through his hair and the cooing was the ramblings of what could only be a crazy Dictator was less so.

Why was it always the nutters, a part of America grumbled to himself. Why couldn't he have the luck to wake up with a pretty lady for once rather than someone about to go on a homicidal killing spree?

"Ah, Alfie, you're awake," a voice said brightly, "just give me a minute to put your glasses back on."

Texas was placed on America's face and he blinked, trying to take in what his eyes were seeing.

The room (was he in the Whitehouse? He wasn't sure,) was long and high ceilinged, with baby blue walls and a plush carpet that practically ate his toes whenever he moved them. Classical designs adorned the walls and ceilings, whilst a window allowed them a view over DC itself. Or, what was left of it. A great inferno had engulfed the city; its once beautiful streets painted in nothing but the golds and reds of flame. Every so often and explosion would rip the night air, signalling the detonation of a gas station or gunpowder store. The army surrounded it in a tight ring, shooting all whom tried to escape.

America clenched his teeth, trying to contain his rising fury. Call it a weakness, but he was made of those who'd tried to escape the tyranny of the past. Even thinking about all of those who were burning alive made him want to rip of the heads of the Weatherly twins. The pain his people must feel as their skin boiled off them-

"Why can't I feel it?" he asked dully, attempting a lethargic act. Rule one of war: Always put your enemy off his guard.

Caprina clapped her hands together delightedly, letting out a squeal of excitement. "Oh, he noticed! Told you they underestimated him as stupid!"

Fredrick grunted, looking at their captive with distaste. "Took long enough."

"Ah, ignore Freddie," she said, cradling America's face lovingly. "He's just sorry that he's lost money. Now then, my sweet, darling boy, you deserve a reward for getting that so quickly, don't you?"

"Uh-"

She placed a finger on his lips with a smile and gently tapped his wrist. "I know you're tied down, but can you see your wrist?"

America snorted, annoyance flooding through him. Sure, usually he was unirritatable (was that even a word? Iggy wouldn't like it,) but this woman just set him on edge. He closed his eyes and flexed his fingers, calculating his chances in his head. The binding seemed to be a type of metal- steel with a titanium compound he thought- so that would take a bit of effort to break. With her bending over him like this, though, snapping her neck would be simple. Then onto that brother of hers.

"Well?" Caprina asked, pouting slightly.

"I say yes, and it's the last thing you'll ever fucking say!" America shouted, lunging against the bonds and moving his hands towards her neck. To his horror, they didn't move. The metal gleamed under the bulbs without even a sign of stress. The only change was at its edges, where thin lines of blood welled up from America's skin and started to drip onto the floor.

"Oh, silly boy, see what you've done now?" the woman said softly to him, dabbing her fingers into the sticky liquid with a sigh. "You've made me unhappy…"

America howled as she took hold of his fingers one by one, pulling them back until the bones snapped in her grasp. "And I don't like being unhappy, Alfie. Now, look at your wrist."

America did as commanded, fighting back tears of pain. A shard of rock seemed to be being… inserted into him. That was his only explanation of the sight before him. "What the _hell_ is that?"

"This, my dear, is a piece of the _cloch an comhaontú._ A very small part, admittedly, but those foolhardy brothers managed to close off whatever route I had to a bigger piece. They'll pay for it darling, don't worry," she explained, stroking it with an expression of tenderness that America had previously only seen on the face of a mother. "Oh, yes, they'll pay… Won't it be beautiful to see Shamus submit willing? To watch as Dylan murders his own dragons? To control Alistair when he gives into the beast? To command Arthur to salute another's status? And for dear, sweet Patrick to address us as father and mother?" she laughed, a high tinkling sound. "Oh, we'll make the best parents!"

"…You need counselling."

Fredrick smiled, showing his teeth. "Watch your tongue, boy. The Mistress doesn't tolerate disobedience."

America glared at him, and Frederick's smile went feral. "Your choice."

"Freddie, don't be so harsh. He doesn't know better yet," Caprina scolded, "Now, this stone… any guesses what it does?"

"Hurts like a bitch."

She giggled at the answer, bending to brush her lips to the carving. "No, silly, it renders you as powerless as a human for the time being. No more super strength. That would be problematic, don't you think?"

America imitated a goldfish for a few seconds, finally managing to get out, "What do you know about u-"

"About nations?" the woman asked, smile suddenly matching her brother's. "Everything."

"How?" America croaked out, shock hanging over him. Only the frikken _President_ know who he was. Even then, their memories were wiped of that specific detail when they left office. Oh, Fries, now she had that technology too.

"It doesn't matter," she cooed, kissing his temple. "Now, my dear, I'd say this wouldn't hurt. But then I'd be lying. Have fun."

She rammed the stone into his arm, screaming words as she did so. The room filled with red light; the lines of the object glistened for a moment, then seemed to drink up the blood offered to it.

Frederick watched with interest as it went in further, shining through the boy's skin as his bloodstream started to absorb the spell cast on it. His Mistress was right, then. She always was, mind, but it was nice to see the disbelievers forced into admitting the truth. And, to be honest- an expression of agony suited the boy. Funny, that. Hell, even his singing wasn't bad like this.

A messenger knocked on the door, barging in before it could be answered. "Ma'am, we've take-"

He stopped at the hellish sight before him, blood draining from his face and various other liquids from his bowels. Then he cut and ran, shouting as loud as he could about experiments and torture in the war office.

The wulfan watching him smiled and licked his lips. And there was dinner. Life truly was great.

* * *

Caprina Weatherly made her way sedately up the steps of the Lincoln memorial and then pressed a hand to it. The stone cracked asunder; Lincoln's statue started to destroy itself until only dust and a magnificently carved marble throne remained. Caprina smiled slightly. "Isn't it wonderful, Alfie?"

America smiled back, bringing her hand to his lips. "Yes, Mistress. It's beautiful."

The woman nodded in approval, gently caressing his face and looking into baby blue eyes. "The whole world will be when we're done with it. Let us begin."

Thin lines of red flashed in Alfred's eyes as he bowed, made his excuses, and found the nearest general. "Dude! Get your ass in a tank!" He looked northwards.

"It's time to help Canadia into the Motherland."

* * *

**And you think you have woman issues? Think about this lot. Mwahahahaha. **

**Yeah, I know I said an update wouldn't be for a while, but inspiration grabbed me passionately and found a table. Terribly sorry about that. **

**Now, to the Irish mythology geeks out there: I changed their personalities a bit. Partly because of the saying 'The maiden, the mother and the crone' attached to them, partly because I'm reading the **_**Táin Bó Cuailnge**_**. Seriously, all Celtic gods and heroes do is kill and sleep with each other. Macha is being like that because she just walked into Crunniuc ma Agnomain's house and set up home (doesn't work with Ireland, funnily enough. He's still pissed off about the pangs of Ulster), Badb was a queen so I imagine she'd be pretty uptight about this sorta stuff, and Morri, well, I just imagine her to be cold and bad tempered. I dunno why. **

**So, any pieces starting to connect up yet? ;) Go back and read it again if not. **

**Also, I think some people are a little confused because of the time jumps- here, this might help:**

**Chap 1-3: 2013.**

**Chap 4: 2053**

**Chap 5: 2089**

**Chap 6 (this one): 2113**

**Do you love headcannon? I do. It's fab. Beautiful. Confusing as hell. ^^ Keep up dear. ^^**

**Thank you for all your reviews, views, favourites and follows! They make my day when they come through, really do!**


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